


Memorize Me

by ScarrletRaven



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Sherlock fall, Domestic, M/M, Married Jim and Sherlock, Memory, Memory Alteration, Mind Games, Mpreg, Post-Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Falls, Twisted Reality, What's really going on, engineer sherlock, trickery, writer Moriarty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:04:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarrletRaven/pseuds/ScarrletRaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not what Sherlock had planned to happen. This is not the what he expected to see when he opened his groggy eyes after having jumped off that building, the drug used to fake his death still coursing through his veins, fainter now than before. He expected to see his connections, for Molly and those he had trusted in the ambulance to be the first sight he saw when he came back from the dead. What he did not expect to see were round, deep chestnut brown eyes, filled with concern. </p><p>"Oh my dear, he's waking up !" the voice that was undeniably Moriarty's called. The man leaned forward towards Sherlock, taking his hand – with an IV imbedded in his vein, Sherlock noted – in his own. “How are you feeling, my love?”<br/>~<br/>Sherlock Holmes wakes up after faking his death in a hospital with none other than Moriarty claiming to be his husband. When Moriarty takes Sherlock home, the detective begins to experience memories of his life with him. Is this all a well-played trick done by Moriarty? Or is Sherlock's memory really different from his reality? Does Moriarty have ulterior motives? </p><p>Read to find out!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wake Up

This was not what Sherlock had planned to happen. This is not the what he expected to see when he opened his groggy eyes after having jumped off that building, the drug used to fake his death still coursing through his veins, fainter now than before. He expected to see his connections, for Molly and those he had trusted in the ambulance to be the first sight he saw when he came back from the dead. What he did not expect to see were round, deep chestnut brown eyes, filled with concern. 

"Oh my dear, he's waking up !" the voice that was undeniably Moriarty's called. The man leaned forward towards Sherlock, taking his hand – with an IV imbedded in his vein, Sherlock noted – in his own. “How are you feeling, my love?”

“Moriarty?” he slurred out, tongue heavy as an after-effect of the drug. “But you shot yourself.” His mind was racing, despite his body's lethargic state. It rapidly attempted to come to a conclusion, one that worked to explain how James Moriarty was standing before him and how he had ended up at a hospital, for surely that was what this place was.

“Oh love, the delusions are kicking in again. Doctor, how long is he going to be this way? I thought the surgery was supposed to help.”

“Give him some time,” a tall blond woman in a white coat told Moriarty. “The surgery stopped any further damage, but the memory impairment that was already present prior to the surgery will remain potentially indefinitely.” 

Sherlock glared at the woman, disliking how she discussed his well-being rather incorrectly with Moriarty. Didn't she watch the news? Wasn't she aware of what had been happening for the past few months? He would normally mark such behavior from normal people as due to their lesser mental processing abilities, but this woman was an outright ignorant imbecile. 

“Darling, I've missed you. I'm just happy you're awake now.” It was then that Sherlock noted, rather distastefully, that Moriarty was still holding onto his hand. 

“Moriarty, is this another one of your acting stunts?” Sherlock questioned. “Are you even going by James Moriarty right now or is this another Richard Brooks act?”

“Richard Brooks?” Moriarty's eyes lit up. He and the doctor exchanged furtive glances. “Sherlock, dear, Richard Brooks is a character in my top-selling novel.”

Sherlock glanced at Moriarty. His expression screamed _honesty_ , and his clothes backed up the statement. Ink splatters were almost undetectable, but present on the cuffs of his sleeves, glasses were tucked into his shirt pocket, a callous on his middle finger suggested lots of writing. But then again, this was Jim Moriarty – Master of Disguise. 

“I read excerpts to you when you fell into a coma before all of this insanity began.”

“Coma? I...” Sherlock thought. For a second, it seemed possible. For a second he remembered, remembered something that he never remembered before. He glanced at his hand in Moriarty's and startled at the sight of the ring. Matching rings, he noted, on either of their fingers. The rings weren't new, no. They fit both of their fingers like they had rested there for a great length of time. Sherlock pulled his hand free from Moriarty's, removed the ring, and stared in wonder at the tan line left behind.

“Are you alright, Sherlock?” Moriarty's voice held a tone of worry. When Sherlock turned to face him, he saw soft, round eyes staring at him, almost pleading him to say he was fine, that he remembered and everything was going to be alright. But Sherlock couldn't. What about John? What about Molly and Mrs. Hudson? 

“I have not figured out how you've done this, but I will. I fell like you asked me to, my name was ruined, and I betrayed John for you. There's nothing else you could want from me.”

It was then that the doctor spoke up. “It seems the damage is worse than we anticipated. I'll plan more treatments and get him on some medication to suppress the episodes.” Sherlock scrutinized every aspect of the woman's conduct, but each subtle movement, each piece of cloth and hair upon her form passed as truthful under his cognizant gaze.

“Doctor Clark, will he still be released into my care tonight? I have the house prepared and had taken into consideration the potential...” He glanced at Sherlock and spoke quieter, but not so softly that he couldn't be heard, “severity of his condition. He'll receive the top care, I promise, just please let my husband come home.”

The word _husband_ hit Sherlock hard, despite the fact he had already seen the rings on their hands. His grip on his, which now rested within the palm of his hand, tightened, as if to assure him that it was real. He couldn't hear the doctor's words, but saw her nodding and offering a sympathetic squeeze to Moriarty's arm before she turned and left the room.

When Jim turned back to Sherlock, he looked like he was about to be in tears. “I'm so sorry this happened to you, Sherly. I'm so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing and tell me what you think this will achieve. And don't call me Sherly.”

“Dear, we've been married for 11 years now. About four years ago, you nearly died of asphyxiation in a swimming pool. You were in a coma for 10 months. The doctors had just about given up on you, but I hadn't. I knew you'd come back to me. Then you did, but you kept saying strange things. It was then that we found out. You're schizophrenic, honey. But I love you just the same! I will always love you.” Moriarty took a step closer before leaning down and pressing his head against Sherlock's. “We were made for each other.”

“Why the surgery?”

“What?” Moriarty leaned back, surprise on his face.

“The doctor, Doctor Clark, was it? Said I had a surgery. If I'm schizophrenic, as you claim, then why did I need a surgery? There is no surgical cure for schizophrenia.”

“That's a bit more complicated, love. I don't think you're ready...”

“Tell me, Moriarty, what was the surgery for?”

“Please, Sherly, stop calling me by my last name. It's Jim. Always Jim. Always your Jim.”

“You're stalling. Answer the question.” Sherlock's patience was tried. He was confused, but determined to get to the bottom of the situation.

It was then that the door to the room opened and the doctor appeared once again. “Alright, Mr. Moriarty. You and your husband can go home. You just need to sign these release documents saying that he has been handed over to your care. He should be on bed rest for at least the next four days to have time to heal. Here are the prescriptions for the medication, and here is the number and referral to the clinic who will deal with his treatments.” Moriarty signed the paperwork quickly, obviously in a hurry to leave the hospital. “Alright, you're all set. One of the nurses will take you out. If you need anything, don't hesitate to contact me.”

Moriarty's attention was directed entirely towards Sherlock after the doctor left again for, hopefully, the final time. “Don't worry, love, everything will be sorted out soon. Just you wait.”

~

Moriarty's home was not a home, but a mansion. The two of them were picked up in a sleek, silver Rolls-Royce, Jim having made the comment that he hates limousines because “they attract too much attention.” When they passed through the gates to Moriarty's manor, the house was nearly too far away to be viewed.

Sherlock took in every detail of the property and stored it in his mind palace for later. “I thought you said you were an author,” Sherlock scoffed. Surely Moriarty would need to be a criminal mastermind to afford such a property.

“Come now, Sherly, I inherited my property from my father, and he from his father before him. You know that.”

“Yes,” Sherlock commented, because strangely, he did know that. 

Jim was standing outside Sherlock's door the moment the car stopped. The light-eyed detective hated how he leaned almost entirely onto Moriarty for support as he limped towards the house. His abdomen was sore, so sore he had to fight back the gasps of pain that threatened to escape his lips. The nurse had explained to him that the soreness would pass within a day or too, and that they had given him heavy narcotics to ease the pain until it faded. Still, Jim refused to explain what the surgery had been for, which had Sherlock feeling suspicious. 

They were at the door, having just made it up the last step on the porch, when Moriarty paused. 

“Jim?” Sherlock questioned, waiting for his nemesis to laugh and give up his act. Instead he did something Sherlock had not expected. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock, hard. His hands left Sherlock's shoulders to tangle in his dark, curly hair, leaving Sherlock with no option but to rest his hands on the slighter man's shoulders in order to keep from falling. Pain erupted in his stomach and Moriarty took his gasp as an opportunity to deepen the kiss. His wet tongue pushed dominantly through Sherlock's mouth, tasting and claiming every corner. Jim tasted... familiar. Sherlock found himself pressing back into the kiss, as if it was natural. His tongue curled with Jim's, fighting for dominance, only to be shot down and pushed aside so that the other man could claim what was his. The sensation was so entirely new, yet so entirely familiar, as if he and Jim did this every day, all the time, for a long time (11 years, possibly?), that Sherlock didn't know what to think. 

Jim's eyes lingered on Sherlock's for a moment when they pulled apart before he pulled open the doors to the manor and beamed. “Welcome home, honey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm back! So this is the first chapter story I've dared to post in a long time. I have some great plans for it, so I'm going to try hard to keep it update. Stay tuned for what's going to happen and comment below what you think might occur!


	2. Fog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock seeks to uncover the truth about his relationship with Moriarty, but memories of times past make him wonder what he can trust any more.

The house felt familiar. Sherlock laid resting upon the soft, eggshell colored sofa in the lounge. Jim had not been lying when he told the doctor that he had everything prepared. Servants cooked Sherlock fish fillets that were fit for a 5 Star hotel. They made their own blends of yoghurt for him and crafted together fruit salads with only the ripest and most succulent of fruit. While it was the servants who made these dishes, it was Moriarty who fed them to Sherlock, muttering about how he needed to eat in order to heal when the detective hardly touched the food. 

At present, Moriarty was fast asleep next to Sherlock on the couch. He must have been exhausted from waiting in the hospital and making sure his husband received the best care. But wait. No, this was an act, Sherlock reminded himself, and sooner or later Moriarty was going to slip up. 

Yet still, Sherlock's gaze befell the ring resting once more upon his ring finger. Moriarty had slipped in back on, whispering sweet nothings into Sherlock's ear. He nearly remembered, staring at the ring, a smile lighting up the consulting criminal's visage, two simple words passing through his lips, then the ring being slipped onto his finger. He nearly remembered joy at the moment the ring took residence upon his finger. Nearly. It was as if a fog had covered his mind, lifting briefly at the right cues. 

He turned the ring on his finger in circles, lost in his thoughts. He would have to investigate. _I am Sherlock Holmes_ , he thought to himself, _I deduce everything_. With that thought, Sherlock pulled himself up from the sofa, barely managing to hold back a groan of pain as he did so. He hobbled, leaning against the coffee table, and then the wall, over to one side of the room, looking for anything that might cue him in on what was happening. It was then that his eyes befell a book. 

"John Harrison, The Adventures of", the title read. Then below, "By James Moriarty".  Sherlock checked the book for authenticity. The publisher, copyright and location of printing all appeared legitimate. He felt pain swell from his stomach and gasped. 

Moriarty was awake in a second. "Sherly, what are you doing!" he scolded, gracefully hopping to his feet and escorting Sherlock back to the sofa. The detective noted how at ease he felt with Jim's guiding hands resting upon him. It was an ease he rarely felt when touched. 

"This is the book you read to me," Sherlock stated. He knew it was. From his brief glimpse at its contents, he had gathered enough to know that John Harrison was him -  or was he John Harrison? - and that Richard Brooks truly was the name of his antagonist in the novel. 

"Yes. Would you like me to read it to you again?" Moriarty offered. 

"No, I'm not interested in delving any deeper into your twisted games, Moriarty."

The other man offered a sad smile. "You still think you're John Harrison?" 

"I still think I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective who lives at 221B Baker Street in London."

"Dear, listen," Moriarty whispered, placing his hand over Sherlock's only to have his husband pull away. Moriarty frowned, but continued. "You are brilliant. You were my inspiration for John Harrison, my muse for writing the entire novel, but you are not him. You are my husband, my love.  I should have never read _The Adventures of John Harrison_ to you. You're to similar too him, it's no wonder your mind made the story your own."

"If John Harrison was your muse for me... Then why did I interpret Richard Brooks as you, assuming I believe this tale."

At this, Moriarty sighed. "Because... He is me. Only in the sense that I based him off myself." Sherlock raised a brow. "Come now, love, that was the spark of our attraction." Moriarty licked his lips, moving closer to Sherlock. "The tension. The games. Both our brilliant minds, no one else could compete."

"So you wrote a novel where we are enemies."

"No, dear, not enemies. John and Richard complete each other. Just as do the both of us. Even as Harrison, you must remember that."

And Sherlock did. He remembered how he needed Moriarty. How life was so dull before he had met the consulting criminal, his other half. He had felt exhilarated in his games, excited to solve the puzzles and prove himself to this worthy adversary. But then it had grown personal and the games had needed to end. "I remember John, John Watson. Who is he in your novel?"

"John Watson isn't real, Sherly. I made him up. Harrison needed a flatmate, someone to keep the fridge stocked and the flat clean. Someone to bring in a source of income. Watson was perfect for the job, but he isn't real. In real life, you have me. I take care of you. I suppose Watson is just another manifestation of myself." He frowned. "But considerably dumbed down, I must admit."

"You... Watson is... you?" Sherlock searched Moriarty's eyes, seeing nothing but the truth within their depths. He leaned forward, lips brushing with Moriarty's, and he felt a stirring in the back of his mind. A dungeon. He pulled back. "Read it to me."

And so he spent the next few days, resting upon the sofa, listening to the story of his life, down to the polish he used on his violin, be recounted to him. He could see his friends, could feel his brother's pensive gaze cast upon him. Sherlock grew increasingly curious as to how Moriarty concluded their game in the novel. They were on the roof, Sherlock could see it.

"'I can't leave John, Richard. I will not,'" Moriarty read. 

"'And I can't leave you,'" came Richard Brooks part. 

Then the gun. He was dead in an instant. Oh, yes, Sherlock remembered this now. The fall. Emotions, something he was often thought not to have. They crushed him and he felt panic in his heart upon seeing his love – love ? – dead; he couldn't bear it. He whispered his last goodbye to John Watson on the phone before jumping, before falling.  

The book closed and Sherlock was snapped out of its magic when a slight electric buzz from the TV replaced Moriarty's voice. 

"Suicide?" he asked. "Brooks committed suicide because Harrison didn't want to run away with him."

Moriarty nodded. "And then Harrison, consumed by the feelings that he previously did not recognize the extent of, jumped to his death because he couldn't live in a world without Brooks."

"That's ridiculous."

"That's tragedy, Sherly dear, and that's what the public loves."

"I thought we shared the established view that the public are idiots." Sherlock shrugged the blanket off his lithe form. It had been three days since the surgery. He hopped up, noting how Moriarty frowned at him, but did not move to stop him. "I want to go out."

"Out? Why would you want to do that? I thought you'd prefer your experiments." Moriarty lounged back into the sofa, his arms draping over its top cushions, taking up nearly the expanse of it. Sherlock felt a tug within him to sit down besides Moriarty and have one of those arms wrapped around him. He shook it off. 

"You were wrong. I'm going." Sherlock turned away and walked shakily towards the door. He counted mentally in his head, expecting Moriarty to jump from the couch an offer some explanation as to why Sherlock couldn't go out. When he got to three and heard nothing, he pulled the door open. 

"You're not honestly going out like that, are you?" the voice sliced the air as the cold sliced Sherlock. His eyes darted between the white snow of the outside world and the thin pajamas that made up his attire. He shut the door.  

“Look, Moriarty,” Sherlock began.

“Jim,” the man lounging on the sofa interrupted. 

“ _Jim_ ,” Sherlock began again. “You're still Richard Brooks to me. I have not yet figured out what is going on here, but I am going to. In the meantime, I will investigate the possibility of your tale being true.” Sherlock held out a “stop” hand in response to Moriarty's smile at the words, but the hand did nothing to dampen its shine. “However, I expect to have free rein and to be able to go out on my own without you hovering over me.”

“Oh, fine, _fine_.” Moriarty was still grinning like a madman and Sherlock felt an inexplicable desire to join him. He frowned instead. “I'll take you up to get some clothes. You can change and go wherever. I only have one condition.”

“And what's that?” 

Moriarty produced a phone. “You carry this with you whenever you're out without me. Keep it charged and keep the ringer on.”

"Alright. Done. Now, I presume I have a room in this mansion?"

"Ah yes, love. We share a room here in my palace, but you have your own study as well."

Without waiting another second, Sherlock turned and began to climb the stairs. He had healed to the point that his abdomen no longer bothered him in activities that required little energy, but climbing the stairs manifested the pain he felt as a slight sweat upon his brow. 

He nearly jumped when he felt an arm snake around his midsection and noticed Moriarty standing besides him, supporting him. He had half the mind to push the helpful arm off him, but his exhaustion prevented him from doing so. Moriarty led him to their bedroom where he could find clothes and be rid of the house and its dizzying influence. As Sherlock approached the door to their room, his heart beat quickened, but not due to pain. 

The door opened to reveal a grand room, fit for royalty. The mahogany floor was adorned with thick, soft rugs that hugged Sherlock's bare feet as he tread upon them, and the walls held pictures of Moriarty and him, in each others' arms, at the park, in a laboratory... Despite the grandness of the room, the bed placed in the center was not particularly royal. It was huge and its comforters must have cost a fortune, but it spoke of wealth in a quiet manner whereas the rest of the house screamed it. With one glance at the dark materials, the wool and silk, Sherlock knew that it was his bed. It was the bed Moriarty had let him design. Its simplicity and somber colors held everything he loved. He could see himself and Moriarty in the room. Whips flashed across his mind's eye. A table slightly out of place evidenced activities, a belt on the night stand spoke to Sherlock. His head was swimming, his deduction skills kicked into overdrive, but consistently came to one conclusion.

He moved into the room, Moriarty having released his frail form. He spun around in an instant to face Moriarty. "You-" he began, before he shoved the consulting criminal against the wall and kissed him hard.

Moriarty's initial shock turned into pleasant surprise and he allowed his mouth to be ravished before flipping them around and, with care, pressing Sherlock against the wall. Sherlock moaned. His skin ignited beneath Moriarty's fingertips, like it remembered, like it had longed for the drug that was the other man. He leaned into the consulting criminal's touches. 

A knee pressed itself between his legs and he groaned in an approving manner. His pants were pulled down and he maneuvered them off his ankles. His breath was husky in a way it never had been before - or had it? His blood was pounding in his ears like a deafening drum, and he couldn't hear his racing mind's thoughts over its continual thrum. Moriarty's hands cupped his ass, and Sherlock broke the kiss abruptly. 

"No, no." He pushed Moriarty off him. The man backed off with a bemused expression. They stood in silence for a moment before Moriarty broke it. 

"It's a lot to take in, Sherly, I understand. I can wait."

Sherlock didn't know what he felt. Was it guilt? Regret? Disgust? He was a man married to his work, to deduction, was he not? His aching desire for more suggested otherwise. He felt dizzy and confused and he didn't know what to do with the heart-broken look Moriarty was giving him. 

So, he did the only thing he could. He went to the closet, slipped on some thick, winter clothes, and left. 

He was out on the cold road to the gate of the estate in what felt like moments. It didn't take long to get to the town. Snow was piled high on the street and he had to be careful not to slip in his inadequate shoes. Everywhere he looked in the city he saw Moriarty and himself. They were at the cafe, Moriarty laughing about the blunders of ordinary people, Sherlock making quips about the personal lives of others written over their physical appearances. They were by the water fountain, exchanging a kiss before parting to head to work. They were in the park, Moriarty holding Sherlock's hand and attempting to skip with his unoblidging husband. Everywhere Sherlock looked, he saw the two of them. 

His head was pounding. A sweat broke out upon his neck. It was too much. The memories felt so real, but did that mean his other life wasn't real? That John wasn't real? 

The sweat was freezing upon his neck. Sherlock broke out in a run, ignoring the pain that ignited in his abdomen. He ran and ran as fast as his legs could carry him, hoping to outrun the memories that were fogging his mind. His breath came out in short pants and his stomach was on fire. Sherlock collapsed into the snow. 

He laid there, the cold seeping into his skin, wondering what was real. His mind was superior, his deduction skills were infallible, and yet he couldn't tell what was false and what was truth. He knew not how long he had been laying there when a shadow fell over him. From the overly expensive brand shoes before him, he didn't need to look up to know who it was. 

A hand rested on his back. “You forgot this,” Moriarty said, offering the phone. 

Sherlock sat up, shivering slightly from the wet ice that hung to his form. His eyes fell upon Moriarty and he saw the bags beneath his eyes, the crease of his brow, the slightly chewed cuticle of his right thumb. All these small signs evinced his husband's exhaustion and stress. Yet still, Moriarty smiled when he looked up at him. It pulled at something within him. His chest burnt with a feeling unlike that of when he had been running. 

Before he could stop himself, he pushed himself into Moriarty's arms. Moriarty tightened his grip around Sherlock and rested his cheek upon his head. “Shh, it's okay, love, don't cry.” It was only then that the shivering man realized hot tears were running down his face. “I'm here, don't worry, I'm here. Everything is going to be just fine.” 

And for the first time, Sherlock believed the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey~! Hope that was alright. I ended up writing most of it on my phone while commuting around. Please leave your comments on what you thought, if any part felt a bit off to you, or if you particularly enjoyed one scene. See you guys at the next chapter!


	3. Illusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty and Sherlock eat breakfast at a cafe, Sherlock begins to do some investigating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you for your wonderful comments! They were an absolute delight to read. I spent quite some time writing and rewriting this chapter, so I hope you enjoy it!

Moriarty was insufferable. That is to say that he was sufferable which made him insufferable. He had somehow convinced Sherlock that what they both needed was breakfast at "their favourite café". Sherlock pointed out that he not only disliked wasting his time eating when it was not absolutely necessary to keep up maximum brain functioning, but that he also did not have a favourite café. He was evidently ignored.

Thus, Sherlock sat in the booth across from Moriarty, taking up more room than necessary in an attempt to make his boredom tangible. He sprawled across his side of the booth, but Moriarty only smiled in adoration at his childish display.

"Are you ready to order, Sherly?"

"Must you insist on that ridiculous nickname?" Sherlock countered.

" _Surely_ I must, it suits you so well, dear."

Sherlock sighed in response, which to Moriarty apparently meant, 'Yes, I am ready to order,' because he hailed the waitress.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Moriarty?" the waitress asked with a grin too big for her face. Or maybe her face was too small for the grin?

"I'll take..." Moriarty looked adorable as he chewed on his lower lip while doing 'eeny-meeny-miny-mo' between two choices. Cute? No, not cute, he looked hideous. Yes. "The French toast with extra sugar."

"Anything to drink with that?"

"Ah, yes. Some coffee, and make it black."

The woman nodded. Sherlock decided that now was his time to order before Moriarty bought a much-too-big-for-him breakfast. He straightened in his seat, pulling his menu before him. "And I'll have the-"

"Black coffee with the Blueberry Scone, I know Mr. Holmes, same as usual."

Sherlock stared, slightly annoyed at having been cut off, but also slightly surprised at having the words torn from his mouth. The waitress left without a moment's hesitation and Moriarty hummed softly to himself while he stacked packs of sugar.

"Go here often, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Hm?" Moriarty glanced up from his mini sugar castle. "Yes, dear, we do. It is our favourite café after all. The food here is phenomenal and trust me, love, I have some high standards."

Sherlock loathed to admit that the food smelled unusually delicious when it arrived. He wished to eat in silence, to take in his surroundings, to deduce the idiosyncrasies of those sitting in the café, but of course Moriarty would not allow him such a privilege.

"Do you have anything planned today?"

Sherlock stared at him. Anyone worthy of him would be able to deduce that. "You tell me."

"You're planning on working in your lab," Moriarty said with a smile. "I thought it better to ask rather than state it for conversational purposes. I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

"Yes. Especially after my surgery for _schizophrenia_.'"

"Indeed." Moriarty glanced up from his meal.

Sherlock stared at Moriarty who stared back in turn. His eyes were bottomless, his expression unreadable. On the surface he displayed a contained joy, but there must be something beneath the façade, some hidden motive. Moriarty acted flawlessly. His display of intellect pulled Sherlock deeper and deeper within his games, but this time, Sherlock would not be played.

"You like your coffee bitter, but your French toast with extra sugar." It was a question despite its monotonous expression.

"I'm not ordinary, surely you've realized that."

Sherlock frowned and took a bite of his scone. As the flavourful blueberry bread rolled across his tongue, images darted across his mind. He cuddled with Moriarty in the booth opposite to them. A warmth filled his chest as his husband's fingers played with his dark curls. He wretched himself from the other man's arms as the waitress came skipping over to them with a knowing smirk. The absence of Moriarty's fingers in his hair left him feeling empty, he wanted to lean back-

"Sherlock? Sherlock? Are you there?" Moriarty's face was in his. Sherlock's breath hitched when he took in the man.

"I'm here, Jim," he whispered.

The dark-eyed man's features relaxed in relief. "You had me worried." He went to move back so that he was no longer leaning across the table, but Sherlock caught a hold of his wrist. He leaned forward hesitantly so that their lips met. The kiss was short and chase, but it sent electric sparks throughout Sherlock's body, sparks he up until recently did not think himself capable of experiencing. When they pulled apart, Moriarty was staring deep into his eyes, searching for something, perhaps a part of Sherlock that had been lost in the accident at the pool, but was now being restored. Perhaps.

The waitress who was apparently standing there cleared her throat and the trance broke. Both men slingshot back into their seats. Sherlock felt irritated that again this woman would barge in and interrupt his time with Moriarty. She offered to take their plates away and Sherlock nodded his assent despite having only eaten a bite of his scone. He was not planning on reliving whatever he had experienced.

Shortly after arriving home, Moriarty excused himself for the day, claiming he had a book reading to attend. Sherlock was tempted to follow him, but he had better things on his agenda. The moment the door closed, Sherlock entered the kitchen. The staff were off duty at the moment, making it the perfect opportunity. He pulled a pill bottle from the cupboard.

 _Holmes, Sherlock_ , the bottle read. Then below that, _Two capsules to be taken twice a day, one in the morning, one in the evening. Take after eating. Capsules may cause fatigue, abdominal pain, diarrhea, or nausea_. He scrutinized the container before removing a pill.

He placed the bottle exactly as he found it before heading up the stairs and to his lab with the one he had removed.

Powders, chemicals, microscopes. Sherlock took in the familiar scene and felt his tense shoulders relax. The lab was a constancy in the bizarre world he woke up in. He quickly got to work, eager to discover another piece of the mystery Moriarty handed to him, and eager to delve into an experiment and momentarily take a break from the intriguing and bemusing world.

Chemicals fizzled and changed in hue: Green here, then red with the addition of a pH2 compound. He worked tirelessly, transported to another place as the powder from the capsule spread across his numerous experiments. He left a concoction heating on a Bunsen Burner, awaiting its boiling point. He mixed the white powder of the capsule with various other chemicals, mentally recording the differences in their reactions.

Sherlock examined the slides he made under a microscope and felt his features falling downward. _Inhibiting properties coupled with an increased release of LH and FSH_. Add that to the chemical structure and reactions to varying substances and that narrows it down to three drugs: Nolvadex, Clomid, and Proviron. _Wait, no_. The inhibition properties were severe enough to remove Nolvadex from the possibilities, and Proviron would release less LH than the amount observed. It had to be Clomid, but that would mean-

Arms snaked around Sherlock's waist. "Hello Honey, I'm home." Sherlock stiffened as Moriarty buried his face into his back.

He wretched himself from the other man's grip and turned to face him with accusation in his eyes. "Why are you giving me steroids?"

Shock flashed across Moriarty's visage, but it quickly turned to amusement. "So that's what you were doing. You looked so deep in thought, I should have guessed you were doing a chemical profile of your medication."

"You're stalling. Why are you giving me steroids? Answer."

"Sherly, this is exactly why I asked the doctors not to put the drug on the label. You're still not in the right state of mind, still so paranoid." Sherlock went to demand an answer again, but Moriarty silenced him with an uplifted finger. "If you really want to know, I'll tell you. It's to prevent gynecomastia."

"Gynecomastia." Sherlock stared. " _Gynecomastia_?"

"Yes, yes, I know."

"You are giving me steroids to prevent the disorder characterized by the male enlargement of the breasts?"

Moriarty was staring at the ground when he offered a nod.

"Why would I even have need to worry about gynecomastia?"

"The surg-"

“Ah, of course. The surgery that you won't discuss with me."

“It's not that simple, dear. You aren't ready yet. You're still so fragile, still remembering who you are.”

“And this surgery will break my delicate mind, is that what you are suggesting?”

“No, listen. I'm simply suggesting that it's too soon.”

“I believe I'm seeing a pattern. When will it be time to explain to me something that impacts my body? When will you confess to your lies, because _this_ ,” Sherlock held a microscope slide up, “ _this_ is not okay.” 

“I just want to see you better, Sherly. I want to see you strong again, self-driven, curious, exploratory. I don't want a repeat of back then... You have to trust me, love, everything I do, I do for you.”

"What's that?" Sherlock ignored Moriarty's exasperated sigh at his disregard to the other man's statement and motioned towards a small slip of paper that caught his eye. When Moriarty saw it, he fell silent. It was important, Sherlock knew, but he couldn't put his finger on how he knew that. He approached it as one might a wild animal and plucked it from its spot.

 _Call me_ , it read, followed by a number.

"What is this from?" Sherlock asked, but he knew. He could already feel the memory welling in his mind's eye. "Jim from IT," whispered Sherlock.

"No, love, not from IT. Jim from the book reading. You saw me reading my book before a crowd and I observed you observing me. I slipped my number into your pocket when mingling with the crowd later."

"I never called, but I kept the number."

"Yes, yes you did. It wasn't long after that that I managed to scrounge a date out of you."

"It's not like you gave me much of a choice, you offered such a delightful puzzle for me to solve, such a wondrous reprieve from the constancy of life. Your factious tales are perfect for battling the mind-splitting boredom I always faced before I met you."

Moriarty chuckled. "What can I say, I'm a master of words."

"You're a master at more than just words," Sherlock commented. "Few others can deduce as I can."

"It's all in the art of story telling, love. In order to capture a character and make him more than simple ink on a page, one must understand mankind at an intimate level." As Moriarty husked the words, his hands ghosted over Sherlock's waist. Sherlock felt goose bumps rose on his arms. "You have to get inside," his hands rested on Sherlock. "To truly understand what makes a person scream," they moved up, "to know what makes a person moan," and down. "You have to get inside of him to shape him into something believable, to make fantasy reality." A hand pressed against Sherlock's cock hard and he felt arousal stirring in him before he pulled backwards, out of Moriarty's embrace.

"No, I'm a man without distractions, a man married to my work."

“But love, you forget so quickly.” Moriarty moved closer again, his nose brushed the sensitive skin of Sherlock's heated neck as he whispered into his ear, “I am your work.”

Moriarty moved so that his face with just before Sherlock's. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the other man's lips, he could feel the warmth of Moriarty's breath upon his lips, centimetres away. His eyes flickered back up, his blood racing in his ears as Moriarty undressed him with the debauched look in his chestnut orbs. He felt himself leaning forward, closing the gap between himself and his enemy, himself and his husband.

Sherlock stumbled when he met air. His eyes snapped open at the same time the lock on the front door clicked. He pulled himself from the sofa where he had been resting, feeling dazed and confused.

"Hi honey, did you miss me?" Moriarty questioned as he fumbled with the locks, a small stack of books balanced in the crook of his left arm, white snow clinging to the fabric of his scarf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit confusing, huh? Leave comments below to let me know what you think and how this chapter made you feel! See you guys next time!


	4. Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits his psychiatrist after a troubling past couple of days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much researching, writing, and rewriting, I present to you the fourth chapter! This one proved quite difficult to write. I hope you lovelies enjoy it!
> 
> In the Last Chapter:  
> Sherlock spent a day in his lab doing a chemical profile on his medication only to discover that it was the steroid, Clomid. He confronts Moriarty about this, gets in a fight, tensions grow and Sherlock and Moriarty are moments from kissing when Sherlock wakes up to it being a dream and Moriarty is just returning from his book reading.

"Do you know why you're here, Mr. Holmes?” a woman asked, sitting behind her desk, spectacles perched on the edge of her large nose. The room was bright; large windows emitted sunlight that reflected off the white sofa and golden-brown desk. 

Sherlock scoffed at the question. “I'm supposed to be a schizophrenic, not an amnesiac.” He tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair, one leg rested atop the other as he reclined into its embrace. 

“Do you feel like you are not a schizophrenic, Mr. Holmes?”

“Enough with the questions. I am not interested in having you pry into my mind and attempt to see what makes me tick.” Sherlock glanced at the clock. His session was to span for two hours. It had been two minutes. “Fine. I am here because my husband insists I receive psychotherapy for my apparent mental affliction.”

“You speak as though you don't believe you have a mental disorder,” the psychiatrist commented.

“Oh, I know I have a mental disorder. I am a high functioning sociopath. Now, schizophrenia on the other hand... I'm not convinced.”

“Have you spoken to Jim about your concerns regarding your diagnosis?”

Sherlock examined the woman. “Have you told your husband about the extramarital affair you're having?”

Beyond the hardened lips, the woman's face remained a mask. “Your response indicates that you have not spoken with your husband on the matter and feel defensive.”

“Surely he doesn't believe that the hours you keep are from work alone. He must suspect something or is he really such an idiot that he can't see what I saw the moment I walked through those doors?”

The psychiatrist would not be cracked. "Mr. Holmes, have you been experiencing anything out of the norm lately? Anything grand or fantastic?" At Sherlock's slight change in expression, the woman pressed on, "You can tell me, it's alright. Patient-Doctor confidentiality, whatever is spoken within these walls, stays within these walls."

"Is that what you told your lover? 'Whatever is done within these walls stays within these walls'?" The doctor refused to take the bait and Sherlock sighed. "I want to kiss him."

"Your husband?"

"No, the cook, of course my husband." Sherlock buried his face in his hands. 

The woman scrawled a few notes onto her notepad as she replied, "Well, there's nothing unusual about that, Mr. Holmes."

"There is for me. I don't get these feelings. I don't long for physical contact or stimulation. I get all of my stimulation from my work, and yet..."

"And yet you long for such contact with Jim."

"I can't get the thought of kissing him out of my head." Sherlock laughed bitterly at himself. "It's ridiculous, the thought has been plaguing me for the past two days."

The doctor didn't miss a beat. "Did something happen two days ago, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock shifted in his padded chair. "I had a dream." The word felt inaccurate. "At least, I think it was a dream."

The psychiatrist softened her eyes, something she must have practised in the mirror countless times in order to achieve the compassionate visage she now wore. "Would you like to recount this experience to me?"

~2 Days Prior~  
Sherlock startled awake on the sofa. He dragged himself off its cushions and towards his husband, who stood fiddling with the door. 

"Give me a hand, will you?" 

The books nearly toppled out of Moriarty's grip just as Sherlock caught them. He briefly examined them. They bore different titles, but all had the same, unmistakable _James Moriarty_ curled in cursive lettering along the spine. Moriarty was saying something. His lips caught the green-blue eyes of the detective. Sherlock watched the full lips move, red and not even slightly chapped. 

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" He still stared.

"How was your day, love?"

"I'm fine, I'm quite well." Sherlock snapped out of his trance in a start when his mind caught up enough to inform him that he hadn't answered the other man's question. " _It_ was fine," he corrected. "And your... book reading?" He pointed at the stack of books with his eyes. 

"Good, it was good." Moriarty examined Sherlock for a moment. "You can leave the books on the coffee table, Moran will tend to them later."

Sherlock nodded, but his eyes settled upon Jim's lips once more. The urge to feel those lips pressed against his own after having, only moments prior, lost the electric purchase of flesh on flesh was all consuming. It was only when Jim turned and padded off to the kitchen that Sherlock realized his thought process. He shook himself mentally. 

" _Sherly dear_ ," Moriarty sing-songed from the kitchen as the other man set the books down. "Would you like some wine?"

"I'm fine," came the man's reply as he perched on the sofa, hands steepled before him as he thought. 

Moriarty came out with a bottle and two glasses. "If you change your mind," he began, before lifting the glass and setting it atop the coffee table. The dark-eyed man sat in the throne-like armchair opposite to Sherlock, one leg crossed over the other, sipping his blood-red liquid from an ornate wine glass. "My publisher wants to send my newest idea to the press."

"Hm?"

"It's a real thriller, love, an absolute blood bath. Completely unpredictable."

"Sounds... fascinating." And it usually would have, but his tone was dry and distant, distracted. 

"Are you alright, love?" Moriarty frowned as he examined Sherlock, searching his features. 

Sherlock felt an overwhelming need for answers. He leapt from the sofa and exited the room. He raced up the stairs and into his lab. The face of a startled Moriarty appeared in the doorway. Sherlock rummaged through shelves, scattering chemicals about before he found what he was looking for. 

"What's this?" he asked, thrusting the paper into his husband's face. 

"That? That's from the first time we met-"

"Jim from the book reading."

Moriarty nodded. "That's right. I asked you to call."

"But I never did." Sherlock examined the small piece of torn paper. He pocketed it before racing out of the room. 

"Where oh where has my Sherly gone?" Sherlock heard Moriarty hum as the light-eyed man pulled his medication from its shelf and examined the label. _Holmes, Sherlock_ and then, _Clomid_. 

Moriarty stood at the top of the stairs, back pressed against the wall, hips jutting out in defiance to gravity, eyes analysing nonexistent dirt beneath his manicured nails. "Did you check the date?" Moriarty asked without looking up. 

"I..." He looked. _27 October 2010_. "But... That means these are-"

"Old meds, yes." Only now did Moriarty turn to face calculating ice blue eyes. "I know that look. You're wondering why you used to be on Clomid and you're coming to all the wrong conclusions."

At Sherlock's snort, Moriarty traversed the stairs and took his husband's face in his hands. Sherlock attempted to pull away but the dark-eyed man held him in an unrelinquishing grip, staring deep into his eyes. 

"I need you to think. If you can't remember, I need you to deduce. You can do it, love. I know you can."

"I deduce that you've been drugging me to cause the confusion I've experienced the past week."

"That's your schizophrenia talking." Before Sherlock could argue, Moriarty went on, "Use logic. Why would you need Clomid, what does it do?"

"Clomid is a steroid. It's commonly taken by athletes to increase follicle stimulating hormones and lutenizing hormones which causes more natural testosterone and thus prevents post-steroid crashes."

"Think, dear, _think_." Moriarty's grip tightened on Sherlock's head, his eyes wide, wild. "What else does it _do_?"

Blue-green eyes snapped shut as Sherlock searched his mind palace for information on the drug. He had read about it - when? There was a girl who had it in her system - who? A client, yes, but why? His tongue ran across his lips to moisten them, his mind attempted to focus on the problem at hand and not on the man whose breath he could feel on his now wet lips. His client, his client, what about his client? Why did she have Clomid in her system? Why hadn't he paid more attention to what she was saying? _Because she had been boring_. 

Jim was analysing him, watching the subtle changes in his expressions as he searched his mind, he could feel the man's probing gaze. Think, think, think... And then it hit him:

"Pregnancy." He knew he was right when his husband released him, eyes as bright as the grin that stretched across his face. "Clomid is given to men as a steroid, but it is sometimes given to women to make them more fertile and capable of bearing children, but why give it to me? Why would I need it? I am neither an athlete who might suffer a post-steroid crash, nor a woman seeking to become pregnant." As he spoke, his mind sought answers to his questions, narrowing down the possibilities. 

Jim stared expectantly, eyes eager, waiting for Sherlock to remember. 

"A man getting pregnant?"

Moriarty broke his silence, "We'd been wanting a baby for years."

"The surgery, then, that was what it was for?" Sherlock questioned, eyes narrow, hands twitching at his side from resisting touching his still-tender abdomen. 

" _May_ be," Moriarty drawled out while nodding. "I didn't want to tell you when I saw the schizophrenia was coming back. It was supposed to help, not harm. We thought... we thought if we could have a baby together – something we had both been wanting – then maybe you would have a firmer grasp on reality and remember that I am your husband, not your nemesis."

 _Likely story_ , Sherlock thought sardonically to himself. Still, it pulled at him, making his skin crawl with emotions that mirrored those described in Moriarty's tale.  "And my current pills?"

"Pain killers, but you haven't been taking those, I know they make you feel...." Moriarty gestured in the air, "mentally incompetent. Besides that, simple antibiotics to prevent infection, which led to the need for probiotic smoothies to keep the good stuff in, but worry not, I've been making sure you're getting all that you need to, love."

"How considerate of you." Sherlock absent-mindedly rubbed the slightly crumpled piece of paper in his pocket while ambivalent emotions hit him. His eyes flickered to Moriarty's lips once more and his mind recoiled, telling him that something was _wrong_. Yet, despite the shocking revelation – if Moriarty's words happened to ring true and he could become pregnant – despite that, he wanted little more than to press his lips against his husband's. He experienced a wave of desire, but turned away rather than leaning towards the shorter man. 

"I didn't want to tell you when it became apparent that you were delusional once more." Moriarty suspired, a hand ran across his face as he moved across the room and sat on the arm of the couch. "I was afraid about how you would react, it's a lot to take in, I know."

"Oh no, it's nothing at all." Moriarty sighed when he recognized the expression that crossed Sherlock's face as he spoke. "It's only that you had my biology changed to suit your own purposes."

"No, dear, _we_ had your biology modified to fit _our_ purposes. You're a scientist, you should understand." 

Some part of Sherlock did understand the reasons for the procedure, but that's what disturbed him. Every part of his mind whispered that it made sense, that it was natural, while it was anything but. 

"Love, you must understand," Moriarty said in exasperation upon seeing the growing scowl upon his husband's lips. "I would have never done anything without your consent. We had both been pushing for the surgery. You had been so adamant about it, I wouldn't have been able to stop you had I wanted to."

Moriarty's words felt like truth. There was an itching in Sherlock's mind that wanted to believe the man standing before him. A part of him cringed at the pain he caused to wash over his husband's visage. Emotions swirled through him, raging and conflicting in a way that threatened the logical governance of his mind. 

“Tell me what you need, Sherlock,” Moriarty whispered, staring up at him through long lashes with an expression so uncharacteristic of the man that Sherlock had half a thought to laugh (and half to cry). 

“I need... time.” Yes, time. “Time to think this over without you.” _Without you clouding my thoughts_ , Sherlock wanted to say. The hurt that flashed through Moriarty's eyes was quickly shielded by understanding.

“Alright, if that's what you need.” The dark-eyed man finished his wine before turning and exiting the room with his glass. Sherlock stood rigid as Jim walked past him and ascended the stairs. 

The room felt somehow colder without the other man's presence. Sherlock collected a small, thin MacBook Air in his hands and perched on the edge of the sofa. The screen greeted him with an overly bright password page for _The_Spider_. Sherlock tried a few passwords to no avail. He back-clicked to the user page and found an additional two accounts on the small, but powerful, computer. He glared indignantly at the account name that could only be his: _The_Virgin_. 

He clicked it and tried the password. His second try, he was in. Sherlock felt a smile attempt to tug at his lips upon viewing 243 types of ash as his screen-saver, but dismissed it as he focused on his reason for pulling up the account. Files first.

His folders possessed a certain amount of disorganization that he found easy to navigate. Files held, not documents from the same case, but related ones. He quickly found that each case had its own document that analysed and discussed the situation in full to the conclusion of the case (or discussed possible solutions for incomplete cases); yet, files existed with titles such as: _Carbon-Based Explosives_ , _Multi-Variable Calculus_ , and _Aerodynamics_. Categories compartmentalized every aspect of the cases for reference and comparison. Sherlock was subtly reminded of his Mind Palace when searching through his cases. 

He found what he was looking for upon searching, “Conception.” One folder held numerous scientific images, research papers, and contact information relating to changing the male anatomy to allow him to conceive and carry a child full term. As Sherlock read, he found the information familiar, the words casting a deja vu effect over him. The amount of animal trials and scientifically sound research that went into this advancement produced a feeling of comfort within the dark-haired man. 

Sherlock absorbed the information, taking in the development of the procedure, watching videos of doctors performing a live surgery, and reading both success and failure stories. Notably, the majority of the failure stories came from those who went the cheaper route to uncertified clinics. 

The room around Sherlock grew dark as he stared intently at the screen. He searched his own name on google only to find a page titled, _The Science of Construction_ , and articles praising his skill set as... a consulting engineer. _Interesting..._ Related top hits included a number of reviews and essays analysing Jim's novels and their potential semblance to the writer's life. Sherlock bookmarked a few for later before searching for John's blog. FaceBook pages of unrelated John Watsons spammed his feed. He tried the url, _www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk_. 

_**404  
Page Not Found.** _

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. They burned when he closed them from the hours of focusing on the bright screen. With a huff, he let the laptop slip closed and discarded it onto the coffee table. 

A slight noise caught Sherlock's attention. He glanced up to see a silhouette of Jim frozen mid-step, halfway down the marble staircase. Darkness shrouded nearly everything from view save for the hallway at the top of the stairs where a small light was left on in one of the rooms. Sherlock's husband continued down the stairs and approached the couch. 

“I distinctly remember requesting to be left alone,” Sherlock's voice came out louder than he anticipated in the silence of the night. 

Moriarty only said, “It's late. Come to bed.” He affectionately rubbed one hand over Sherlock's shoulder – a touch that Sherlock felt a peculiar desire to lean into – before turning and, without waiting for a response, slinking back the way he came. 

Ice blue eyes stared in puzzlement into the dim light where Jim's receding figure had gone for a few moments. Sherlock debated staying down on the sofa, but the thought of the sombre room, the dark sheets and the soft blanket, brought him to his feet. He stretched, fighting back a wince as his tight muscles complained, before tentatively climbing the stairs.

Sherlock followed the light to the room. He pushed the half-closed door open and stood for a few moments in the doorway. Jim laid in black silk pyjamas, the top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a smooth chest that caught Sherlock's eye before he forced himself to look elsewhere. That elsewhere happened to be his husband's lips which moulded themselves into a pleasant smile when their owner noticed Sherlock. 

Moriarty said nothing as Sherlock entered the room and tentatively sat on the edge of the bedside opposite to him. Sherlock expected a comment, a witty remark that would give him reason to return to the sofa, but none was received. He swung his languid form onto the bed and tucked himself underneath the billowing blankets. He carefully placed himself as far away from the bed's other occupant as possible. Jim waited for him to settle down before reaching over and turning out the light, leaving them both in pitch darkness.

Sherlock wondered vaguely if his eyes were open or closed as he stared into the darkness and listened to the sound of Jim's breathing. He could see John's face dancing across the black of the night, only to be replaced by Moriarty's own visage. He saw his husband's dark eyes light up as Sherlock deduced the happenings of his story, a brilliant smile brighten his features as Sherlock agreed to go out with him. Sherlock found himself falling into the night, the sound of his husband's breathing slowing in time with his own, Jim's smile as clear as day in his mind.

~

“Did you sleep with your husband that night, Mr. Holmes?” the psychiatrist cut in, staring down her spectacles at the man reclined in his chair. 

Sherlock frowned. “No. We rested together, but that was all.”

“Would you have-”

“No, no, don't ask that. You already know the answer to that question, and asking it will lead to an unnecessary amount of circumlocution on the behalf of us both.” 

The woman, who Sherlock had began to mentally refer to as The Nose, nodded in agreeance. “Very well, but what happened when you awoke? How did you feel? How did you interact with your husband?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. Waking up had been disconcerting. While he might have expected to wake up with Moriarty smothering him in a tight embrace, it had been _he_ , Sherlock, who had his arms wrapped around the slighter man and not the converse. “I was... holding him in my arms.”

The Nose shifted in her chair. “That is perfectly normal behaviour. One might even say it is to be expected from a man who's lived with his husband for as long as you have. James provides security to you, even if you have trouble seeing that he does at the moment, and having him in your arms would allow you comfort while you slept. I take it you slept well?”

Sherlock did not know if he agreed with the Nose's words, but he nodded. 

The psychiatrist scribbled some notes down before making eye contact with the curly-haired man before her. “It sounds to me like you have been progressing very well, Mr. Holmes. Schizophrenia is difficult to live with, especially for one who refuses to take his antipsychotics-”

“They interfere with my work,” Sherlock declared, only to wonder at his response because he didn't remember being on antipsychotics before.

“Yes, yes, which is why both you and Mr. Moriarty decided it was best you work through this together, but that means that's what you need to do. You must work _together_ with your husband. He has been incredibly strong for you-”

“Are you attempting to guilt me into ignoring my premonitions regarding Jim?”

“No, not at all,” the Nose said with a straight face. “When Mr. Moriarty called to schedule your appointment, I discussed the possibility of relocating you to a facility that helps with this sort of situation, but he refused. He said you are one of the most logical people he has ever met and that, if anyone could understand his own schizophrenia and conquer it, it would be you.” She allowed Sherlock to take in her words for a moment before continuing. “You are on the right track, but I worry you cannot do this alone. Pushing your husband away only allows more space for the delusions to take over. Use him as something to ground yourself with.”

“That's one of the reasons we wanted a child,” Sherlock commented, “to remind me of what is real...” He paused as a thought flashed through his mind. “Doctor, if I thought I was Jim's character because he read me his novel while I was in a coma, how does that mean I have schizophrenia? That is simply an amnesiac effect from losing brain cells while drowning.” Sherlock internally cringed at the thought of losing brain cells and becoming closer to _average intelligence_.

“Traumatic events, such as the one you went through when you drowned, can trigger schizophrenia in those who are already predisposed for it. Are you aware your father passed away?”

“Yes, of course.” It was obvious, and yet it felt unclear. Sherlock reached into his mind for the information. “He had schizophrenia as well.”

The Nose nodded gravely. “He was brilliant as you are too.”

“But he used his brilliance to dismember bodies,” Sherlock recounted bitterly, surprised at the memories that flooded his mind as he spoke the words.

“The pool incident triggered your schizophrenia. Jim reading his story to you only fuelled your delusions, but recognizing them as delusions is half the battle.”

Sherlock glanced at the clock. “It appears our time is up,” he said as he sprang to his feet. 

“Ah, yes,” she replied with a glance at the clock. “I feel like we really got far today, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock turned to the door. “Remember the advice I gave you, it will help. I'll be seeing you at our next session.” 

As Sherlock left the office, a man bumped into him. He scowled as he straightened himself and the man continued to block his path.

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?”

“I'm Leaving, actually, sorry to disappoint.” Sherlock moved to side step the man, only to be blocked once more. His patience tiring, he directed his attention towards the balding blond man before him. _Late 50s, stressor, had a wife but she left him, now has a dog- two dogs._. “What do you want?”

“I need you to look through these papers.” The man thrust a brief case into Sherlock's arms. He danced from foot to foot with anxious motions, casting his eyes in every which direction. A woman a couple meters away gave the pair a bizarre look. The man leaned forward to whisper in Sherlock's ear, “Don't let him see them.”

“Don't let who see them? Who are you?”

The woman was approaching now. The man gave Sherlock one last wild look before darting off down the street. “Are you alright?” the mocha-skinned woman asked, frowning at Sherlock.

“Fine,” he replied without looking away from the receding figure. He moved away from her and hailed a taxi. Once inside, he fumbled with the brief case only to find it padlocked. He calculated the chance of there being a bomb within the brief case as he rode home. By the time he arrived, he felt confident enough that it was safe to bring it inside with him. 

As Sherlock entered the living room, he frowned at the brief case when recounting the man's words and hid it beneath the sofa. He had just stood up when Jim entered the room with ink stained to the side of his left hand and splatters of ink along the sleeves of what Sherlock could only guess to be designer clothing, as the brunette seemed to wear nothing but. 

“So tell me,” he drawled out, “How'd it go?”

Sherlock felt a need he had been ignoring for the past few days overtake him. He struggled internally before taking into consideration the words of his psychiatrist. As awful as she might have been, she might have had some logic behind her words, and it wouldn't hurt to test it out. 

The taller man moved with long strides across the room, his eyes never breaking contact with chestnut brown, until he stood inches away from Moriarty. He tilted his husband's chin up as he leaned down and claimed his soft lips. Jim was stunned for a moment, but as Sherlock began to pull away, he came back to life. Hands wrapped in Sherlock's dark curls and pulled him down for a more heated kiss. Jim dominated the kiss, exploring Sherlock's mouth with his provocative tongue, causing the other man to moan into his warm cavern. They melted together for a number of minutes before pulling apart, both flushed and panting.

“I think I like this psychiatrist of yours, Sherly,” Jim breathed out in a whisper with a smile in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions? Criticisms or praise? Let me know what you're thinking by leaving a comment below! (comments feed my creative process ;) ).
> 
> Until next time,  
> ScarrletRaven


	5. A Very Briefcase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Announcer voice* Last time on Memorize Me:  
> Sherlock had an appointment with his psychiatrist, the Nose. He encounters a strange balding man on the streets. The man gives him a case and runs off. Sherlock and Jim kiss!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *creeps out from the shadows*  
> I'm back from my hiatus! I live! And I come bearing a chapter for you lovelies :) I hope you guys enjoy. 
> 
> Leave me your thoughts in the comments!

Sherlock buried his face into his husband's pyjama-clad back. Jim radiated a warmth that left the light-eyed man content. He took the moment, with the dawn's early light not yet upon them, to bask in his husband's presence and forget his troubles. Laying there with him felt comfortable, it felt right. Yet, sentiment could have a clouding influence over one's mind if he wasn't too careful. Still, the peaceful moment-

“ _Well you can tell by the way I use my walk_ ,” a song filled the air. “ _I'm a woman's man, no time to talk..._ ”

Jim's dark eyes cracked open and he groaned. He grabbed for his phone. 

“ _Whether you're a brother, or whether you're a mother,_ ” the song continued passionately, “ _you're stayin' alive, stayin' alive_.”

“What?” he answered in a gruff voice. “Wait, today?” Jim pulled away from Sherlock, offering him an apologetic glance as he escaped the grasps of the sheets and duvet. “Yes, yes, it's ready. I'll be right over.” 

“Work?” the question came when Jim hung up and searched for a suit to put on. 

“'fraid so. I would love to stick around, but my publisher managed to get me an interview about my new book with the Guardian!” At Sherlock's raised brow Moriarty sighed. “You don't know the Guardian? _Tsk tsk_ , Sherly love.” 

“I have no need to listen to other people's mundane little opinions about what makes a 'good' book.”

“No indeed not.” The brunette sifted through some papers before finding what he was looking for. “Here, this is for you.”

Sherlock hid his surprise as he accepted the bundle of papers. “This is-”

“A riddle, something to keep you entertained while I'm gone. Have it solved by this evening and I'll have a reward for you.” 

Sherlock couldn't help but ask, “And if I don't?” 

“Oh love, we both know you will.” Moriarty fixed his tie in place before turning back to face Sherlock. “How do I look?”

 _Stunning. Perfect. Wonderful._ “Fine.” 

Moriarty deflated slightly, but laughed off his husband's response. “Ta ta and good luck!” 

Sherlock listened to the clicking of shoes upon the polished wood floorboards. He waited for the front door to close and the Rolls-Royce to pull away from the house before he jumped up and began to dress. As stimulating as the riddle would doubtlessly be, he had work to do. 

Sherlock raced down the stairs, the familiar thrill of being on a case coursing through his body. He knelt down by the sofa, feeling blindly for the briefcase. Panic filled him for a moment as his wanton hand met air, but it dissipated the moment his flesh came in contact with the smooth metal of the strange case. He examined it briefly before slipping into his coat and out the door. 

He walked at a brisk pace, dark curls bouncing in the icy wind. The path to his work came easily to him, as if he had walked the pavements countless times before. He entered through the main door, slipped into an elevator and began his ascent up to the engineering floor. 

When he arrived, he found himself greeted with a door requiring a key-card to be swiped. He frowned at it as he pressed the intercom button. 

“Um, hello?” a nervous woman's voice answered.

“Hello, I appear to have forgotten my key-card, but I'll be needing to access my work space.”

“Sherlock, is that you? Oh my god, of course it's you! How are you, how has everything been with Jim?”

The consulting engineer stared affronted at the voice coming from the box. “Isn't this a matter we can discuss on the other side of this door?”

“Oh yes, of course. My apologies.” 

_Eep_ , the door wheezed. The red light turned green and the door clicked. 

Sherlock pushed his way inside, intent on passing the woman and finding an area where he could properly examine the brief case. He stopped dead when he saw her. 

“Molly?” her name slipped off his lips.

“Hi, Sherlock!” She wrapped her arms around him. His own arms hung awkwardly by his sides. Molly was there. Molly was hugging him. What was she doing there? 

“Are you alright, you haven't been hurt?”

She pulled away and gave him a strange look. “I'm just fine, it's you I've been worried about. I mean, especially after the Fall. I thought for sure you-”

“Excuse me?” 

“Oh, how rude of me. You probably don't want to talk about it.” She twisted her fingers nervously. “You're probably busy... building something, I'm sure. I should probably get back to work, but it... it was nice to see you again, Sherlock.” She gave him one more awkward hug before pulling away and scampering off before he could stop her. Sherlock shook off the experience, but not before saving it in his Mind Palace for further analyzation. 

He strode about the lab, examining the chemicals, resources, and machines. He quickly located the one he needed. Sherlock placed the case under an x-ray machine, taking multiple angle shots. It appeared to be a normal briefcase, nothing strange about it. He briefly considered opening the case there, but dismissed the idea upon noting the cameras. Undoubtably, if the “him” Sherlock wasn't to show the briefcase to was Moriarty, the contents must be sensitive. He wouldn't risk them appearing on video-feed. Still, the man could have simply been a crazed fanatic sending Sherlock multiple images of himself nude. The consulting engineer frowned at the disappointing thought. 

Sherlock turned off the machines he used, pocketed some tubes of chemicals his personal lab was short on, and exited with his briefcase. He was back on the street for two seconds – more accurately 6.7 seconds, if his sense of time was correct – when he found himself stopped once more. 

“ _Psstt_ , Mr. Holmes, _over here_!” 

Sherlock glanced around for the source of the sound, narrowing it down to the nearby alleyway. The balding blond stood in the shadows, his bright eyes glimmering and beckoning Sherlock near. Sherlock began his way-

“Sherlock! How lovely to run into you! How have you and Jim been?” 

A familiar looking young woman drew his attention away from the man. She tied her hair back into a pony-tail. The graphite on the side of her hand suggested she was a student, and left-handed. The bags beneath her eyes evinced a part-time job that took up all her time when she wasn't studying. He placed her then, in her familiarity, as the cafe waitress who always wormed her way into his alone time with Jim. Apparently, he mentally noted with distain, bothering people was habitual for her.

“We're fine.” 

“That's wonderful,” she said, ignoring his dismissing tone. “You know, I always love it when couples like you come into the cafe, all in love. Especially seeing how long you and Jim have been together now, it just brightens my day.”

“That's great, now if you'll excuse me I have somewhere I need to be.” Sherlock looked past the girl towards the alley, trying to see around her. 

“Oh, now that you mention it, so do I! It was lovely chatting with you. Tell Jim I send my best wishes to him with his new release coming out soon!”

Sherlock finally had a vantage point to see the alleyway, but the man was gone. “Damn it.” He walked the rest of the way back, ignoring the biting cold that dug its way into his skin and turned his nose pink.

The first thing Sherlock noticed when he entered the house was that there were other people there. Lots of other people if his deduction skills served him correctly. The servants were in the kitchen, some tended to plants in the garden. He slipped inside as silently as possible, tucked the briefcase out of sight and crept up the stairs.

“Mr. Holmes?”

He froze on the landing, turning on his heels to face the servant who stared up at him. 

“Would you like lunch to be brought up to you or shall you have it down here?”

“I will come down when I'm hungry,” he replied, fully intending on not coming down even if his lateral hypothalamus, the usually silent hunger alerting portion of his brain, did decide it wanted nourishment. 

After he placed the chemicals from work in their rightful places in his lab, he turned to examine the papers Moriarty had left him with. The first was a newspaper clipping.

_Beggar, Hugh Boone, arrested under suspicion of murder of the prominent businessman, Mr. Neville St. Clair. Mrs. St. Clair reported seeing her husband in the window of the East End opium den. Police reports place Hugh Boone as the sole occupant of the room. Possessions of Mr. St. Clair have been discovered in the room and outside the den, leaving suspicions to befall the beggar, Boone. A body has yet to be discovered._

Another of the papers was a witness statement from Mrs. St. Clair. Sherlock skimmed it, looking for clues.

 _… traveled down to the city to purchase a box of bricks for our son. I had business in the city as well. I was walking past..._ Sherlock skimmed ahead. _I saw him standing in the window! He appeared alarmed and looked as if he was pulled, by force, back into the room! To my utter horror, the proprietor of the establishment refused me entry. It was then that I found an inspector and two constables... the room held a disfigured beggar man with a twisted lip. He was absolutely frightful. Blood splatters littered his clothes and rested on the window frame where my husband had been. A box of bricks were_ – Sherlock mentally corrected the grammar to was – _in the corner of the room. I found a suit that belongs to my husband and the police found his coat washed up in the river._

That was enough. Sherlock was almost certain the man had been murdered. It felt too easy, though. Moriarty wouldn't give him such a simple riddle. There must be more.

He leafed through the additional papers: documents filed by the police department, a missing person report for Mr. St. Clair, descriptions of the evidence picked up from and around the opium house, doctor visits suggesting Mr. St. Clair was not a drug user-

“Oh, what's this?” Sherlock examined the heavy envelope. He opened it carefully, placing the signet ring on the desk before him as he turned his attention the the thin, cursively-written letter. 

_My Dearest Kate,_

_I am deeply sorry to have caused you such sorrow. Please know that I am alive and well and eager to return to you. I have enclosed my ring to prove I am indeed your husband, if my handwriting does not already prove this point. I ask you to be patient, I shall return to you soon._

_Yours Truly,  
Neville _

Sherlock examined the date on the letter. He turned his gaze back to the date of Hugh Boone's arrest. They were the same. He sat in deep concentration, running the events presented from the documents through his head. He examined the different possibilities in his mind palace, recalling the little details each document gave in hopes that one would shine light on the solution. 

Sherlock did not know how long he sat there, but it must have been a long expanse of time because soon Moriarty was home. He listened to the other man greet his servant as his coat was taken and as he began to make his way up the stairs. 

“Ah, I thought I might find you here.” Jim stood in the doorway to Sherlock's lab, leaning against the wall with his head held in its ever-proud manner. “Figure it out yet?” he asked, motioning towards the documents that Sherlock had scattered across the table.

Sherlock stood from his seat, wincing slightly as his tight muscles protested. He ignored them and began to pace. “Initially I believed that Boone had killed Mr. St. Clair, all the signs pointed to it.”

“But?” 

Sherlock locked his eyes on Jim for a moment before continuing in his brisk movements. “But it was too simple and there were too many variables. What would he have done with the body? He could have thrown him out the window and into the river, as it appears he did with his clothes, but no... No, Boone didn't kill Mr. St. Clair. I know this because of the letter the businessman sent his wife when he was supposed to be dead. He can't very well be writing letters if he isn't alive, thus he wasn't killed.”

“What about the box of bricks and his clothes?” prompted Moriarty.

“Ah yes, I'm getting to that. The disfigured beggar didn't kill the businessman. He couldn't have because they were the same person.” 

“And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“It's simple if you think about it. If Mr. St. Clair made himself appear disfigured and poor, people would pity him. He could make more earnings as a beggar than a businessman. In all likelihood, he hadn't expected his wife to come to the city. When she saw him, he pulled himself away from the window, cutting himself on the glass of the broken-down establishment. He disguised himself as Hugh Boone and tried to throw out his clothes and anything that would tie his beggar-identity to his real identity, but he hadn't enough time.” Sherlock nodded to himself. “His wife came in with the inspector and found the beggar. They arrested him and he wrote the letter to his wife.”

“Oh Sherly,” Jim said with a grin, moving into the room. “I love it when you talk like that.” 

“I am correct in my deductions, then?”

“Yes, of course.” Jim stood close to Sherlock now. He ran his hands down the taller man's arms, taking in Sherlock like a delectable treat to consume. “I have the present I promised you.”

Sherlock gave his husband an uncertain look, debating whether or not a present from Jim Moriarty would be in his best interest. The dark-eyed man didn't give him the option of refusal, grasping his hand and dragging him towards the bedroom. 

Sherlock began, “Whatever you have planned-” 

“Oh hush,” Jim silenced, pushing Sherlock so that he was sitting on the bed. The engineer prepared himself to argue, to fight if need be. His thoughts stopped abruptly when Moriarty pressed a carefully wrapped box into his hands. He knew what it was, even without opening it. Ordinarily, he knew what gifts were without opening them, but _this_... He could never forget the weight and balance of this.

He unwrapped the box with careful hands, taking a deep breath when he saw the leather case. He undid the locks, revelling in the sound of the _click_. He stared at the contents with revery. A beautiful mahogany violin rested on the satin lining of the case. He picked it up with tentative hands, took out the bow and ran it over the silver strings. A beautiful sound emanated from the small instrument. He brought it away from his chin and stared up at Jim, who waited with nervous anticipation.

“Do you like it?”

A list of responses ran through Sherlock's mind, but what came out was, “I love it.”

He carefully put the violin and bow back in the case, locking it shut and resting it on the night stand. He then turned to Moriarty, wrapped his hands around the silky fabric of his shirt and pulled him onto the bed. Jim let out a surprised squeal when Sherlock laid atop him. Pink pooled in his cheeks and Sherlock could feel the quickened thrumming of Jim's heart from where their chests met. 

Jim laid there, waiting for Sherlock to make a move. The sight of him flustered by Sherlock, the excitement of solving the puzzle he had created, and the considerateness of his gift made Sherlock lean forward and capture his lips. Jim moaned into his mouth. He kept his hands at his side, Sherlock noted, perhaps in an attempt to give the taller man complete control of the situation so as to not frighten him off. The action was thoughtful. Sherlock ran his own hands down Moriarty's arms, then his chest, appreciating the lean muscles behind the shirt. The man beneath him arched his back deliciously against the sheets. 

When they broke contact, Moriarty wrapped his lips around Sherlock's neck. He sucked on the sensitive area, running his teeth across the delicate flesh. Sherlock snuck a hand underneath Jim's shirt in response. The author bit his neck hard and Sherlock twisted his nipple, immediately causing Jim to release him. Jim smiled innocently at Sherlock, lifting his hands by his head in faux-surrender. The warmth that ran through his being pooled in his lower regions. Moriarty must have felt it because he squirmed beneath him. The friction evoked a moan from the light-eyed man. He kissed Jim fervently as they writhed beneath the sheets together, both fully clothed.

“So warm,” Sherlock found himself saying, “I feel so warm.”

Jim bucked upward and pleasure shot through Sherlock's veins. He gasped for air before stealing it from Jim's mouth. His tongue explored his husband's, making him grow only warmer. He grabbed one of his husband's hands and placed it on his rear. Jim used the position to pull Sherlock tighter against him as they moved against each other. 

Pressure built within Sherlock. Each motion brought waves of pleasure so intense that they rivalled immense pain. He gasped into his husband's mouth. He needed release. 

“Let me help you, Sherly,” Jim offered. 

Sherlock shook his head, or perhaps it was his body shaking from another wave of pleasure. “Keep...” he tried, “clothes on.” 

“Alright,” Jim panted out. “Alright, but let me help you.” 

He nodded this time, desperate for release and willing to trust Jim. A hand found its way between their writhing forms and pressed gently against Sherlock's clothes-clad penis. He bucked in response, but the hand on his rear brought him back down. Jim repeated the motion, moving his hand in an almost circular, delicate motion, his other hand practically digging into Sherlock's arse. The sensations overpowered Sherlock. He felt his body shutter, he felt his nerves twitch and then white light overtook his vision.

He panted, breathless and sensitive as Jim moved against him for a few more moments before he too tensed and let out a strangled moan. They laid there, breathing heavily. Sherlock felt giddy despite the sweat clinging to his clothes. He felt light even as his limbs felt heavy. He rested his head on his husband's chest, listening as the other man's heart slowed to a strong, even thrum. Jim pet Sherlock's damp curls and the consultant sighed peacefully. 

Sherlock didn't know when he had drifted off to sleep. He felt sticky and hot under the sheets in the dark room. He pulled himself away from Moriarty, who grumbled but did not wake. His bare feet met the cold wooden floor as he made his way to the bathroom. He examined his reflection, startled to find that he had a glow about him. A light blush turned his cheeks rosy and made his blue-green eyes more striking than usual. His wild curls twisted about his face, but appeared purposefully styled. He washed his face with some cool sink water, patting his skin dry before exiting the bathroom. He would need a shower in the morning, but now... 

He made his way as silently as possible down the stairs. When he made it to the room holding the briefcase he glanced about for any late-night occupants. Satisfied that he was alone, he pulled the case from its hiding spot. It didn't take him long to get through the locks. When it fell open before him documents and images scattered the floor. Cold dread replaced the warm, fuzzy feelings in Sherlock's stomach.

Before him laid pictures of himself and John Watson, articles about his death – his “suicide” - newspaper clippings about the criminal mastermind, Moriarty, being an actor. _The Science of Deduction_ 's homepage was amongst the papers, along with John Watson's blog.

Sherlock stared in horror as his mind worked to process the information. He glanced into the dark. Cold dread washed over him at the implications the contents of the briefcase held.


	6. London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there lovelies! I'm truly sorry about the long wait for this chapter. Life decided to get in between me and my writing once more, but your comments gave me the strength needed to beat Life back into Her writeful ( ;) ) place. 
> 
> I have the entire story planned out, so hopefully I'll be able to update more frequently. I'll usually have a deadline for myself to update by on my profile. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy.

The air possessed a chill that made Sherlock's hairs stand upright on his neck. He felt antsy, standing there in the shadows, waiting. He felt on edge, and while he did not particularly enjoy the feeling, he appreciated the puzzle, the lack of boredom the briefcase revelation brought him. 

“You looked inside?” the balding man stood flattened against the wall opposite to him. His eyes glanced every which way to determine whether or not they had been followed. 

“Tell me, who are you?” Sherlock asked, piercing blue eyes examining the balding man. “Judging by your nerves and your _drinking problem_ , it is doubtful my brother sent you, unless he used you because Moriarty would never suspect it.”

“The less you know about me, the better.” The man glanced down the alley as a woman paused at the entrance, but continued on the path rather than turning down the narrow space between the two buildings. “I just need you to remember who you are.”

“Sherlock Holmes. I know who I am.”

The nervous man looked at Sherlock wearily before asking, “What's your occupation, Mr. Holmes?”

“I'm a consulting engineer-”

“Consulting _detective_ ,” the man interjected.

“Right.” Sherlock frowned. “Entertain me this thought, how do I know if what you're saying is true?”

“You did open the briefcase, right?”

“Oh yes, or else we would not be speaking at present. What I meant is how do I know if you are real? Evidently, I have been supposed to have schizophrenia.”

“But surely you must remember-”

“I _remember_ my life with Jim. It has been vague, but it is becoming clearer and clearer with each day... except when I talk to you.”

“You remember, then? You remember Baker Street and Watson?”

“I cannot forget. It is not inconceivable that you speak the truth, but it seems all too likely that you are naught but a figment of my imagination, trying to convince me to succumb to my delusions.” Sherlock gave the man a pointed look. “If I asked a passerby if you were real, what do you suppose they'd say?”

“You can't do that!” The man jumped, his eyes wide, brows forced upwards and scrunched together, lips stretched horizontally in horror. 

“And why might it be that I cannot prove you aren't a hallucination?”

“Moriarty owns this entire town. If one of them sees me, it's over. Just being here now is a risk.”

“That's awfully convenient for you and not very convincing for me.” Sherlock glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes before he was supposed to meet Jim for lunch. “You refuse to tell me who you are and you won't prove your existence. You can see how this is difficult for me to believe?”

“I understand, Mr. Holmes.” The man nodded. “Moriarty's reach is deep. Once the poison sets in... well, I'm not certain that one can fight it, but if anyone can, it's you.”

“Poison?”

“He has reset your mind, Mr. Holmes. He has reshaped it into what he wants it to be, but your old life still bleeds through. You cannot trust him.” The man's words were desperate. He put a frenzied need for Sherlock to understand into his tone and expression. 

“I am afraid I cannot trust you, either.” 11 minutes until lunch now. Take away the seven minute walk- He would take the nervous man's words into consideration. “I really must be going now.”

“Ask him if you can go to London.” 

Sherlock turned back to face the man.

He pressed on, “Ask him. If he is who you think he is, what reason would he have to stop you from going?”

Sherlock turned away from the man and exited the alley. He had a lunch date to adhere to, but the balding blond's words echoed like bullets in his mind. 

 

~

 

“-then my publisher tells me that the book was so well received that I'll have my calendar stocked full of book signings if I want them.” Moriarty broke off as he examined Sherlock. “Are you alright, love? Something on your mind?”

Sherlock moved the home style potatoes around on his plate with his fork before lifting his eyes to meet Moriarty's. “I want to go to London.” He scrutinized the other man's facial features for any signs of distress or distrust, but was met only with a myriad of confusion.

“All right, dear... Is there anything in particular that spawned this sudden desire to visit London?” The dark-eyed man waited apprehensively for his husband's response, only to be met by stony silence. “Anything that might have to do with,” he leaned forward to continue in a hushed whisper, “the affliction you've been combatting?”

Sherlock debated his response before honestly saying, “Actually, yes. I want to believe you about our life together,” as he spoke the words their truth rung deeply in his heart, “but I need to be certain. I feel by visiting London and seeing that your stories are truly that, I will be able to move on more comfortably in my life with you.” Sherlock worded his answer carefully to better assure himself Jim's agreement. 

“Sherly, dear,” Jim started after pondering silently to himself for a lengthy expanse of time, “I do agree that we should visit London to give you this closure, but I am afraid that visiting so soon after... after all that's happened recently will derail the progress we've made and your mind will only craft the scenery towards what it thinks it should be.” Sherlock felt Jim's prodding gaze as his husband sought to discover any emotions that passed across his masked visage.

“When would you deem an appropriate time to visit London, then?” he questioned, tone flat as to not betray his thoughts.

The chestnut-eyed man wiped his hands off on the handkerchief as he responded, “It isn't a quantifiable _expanse of time_ per se,” he said, “but rather how well you are doing psychologically. We can discuss going to London with Dr. Scoles,” Moriarty broke off to eat the pasta he had been playing with, “see what she has to say. How does that sound?”

Sherlock nodded hesitantly. He may not be particularly fond of the Nose, but the woman did stand her own against even Sherlock's prods at her. She was a woman of professionalism and, if she happened to say something out of the consultant's best interest, Sherlock was confident he'd pick up on it. 

Jim's smile made the idea of visiting the Nose once more almost worth it. “Excellent. Now, I have to be returning to work, but I should be home early this evening. Leonard mentioned he has some projects that might interest you if you want to return to work.” 

Sherlock nodded to show his understanding. His husband put down enough money for both their meals and a generous tip, stood from the table, and placed a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips before exiting the restaurant with an impish grin lighting his features.

The consultant sighed as he fell back into his seat, giving up on eating the potatoes on his plate. He pulled the little phone Jim had given him out of his pocket and punched in a number before deleting it, not for the first time. Sherlock wasn't sure what he was more afraid of, Mycroft answering his call, or Mycroft not answering his call. He took a deep breath and tapped in the number once again. His thumb hesitated over the _green call_ button. His cobalt eyes hardened with resolve and he pressed it firmly, holding the phone up to his ear.

_Ringgg, ringgg, ring_ \- “Hello?”

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise. 

“Hello?” the woman repeated, voice shaking slightly.

“Molly?” he asked.

“Yes? Speaking. Who is this?”

He debated hanging up for an instant, but decided against it, settling only for, “Sherlock.”

“Oh! Hi!” she breathed out with excitement, then backtracked, “I mean, how have you been?”

“Molly,” Sherlock said, ignoring her question, “how long have you had this phone number?”

“Um...” Her voice came out slightly muffled when she replied, which Sherlock interpreted as her chewing on her lower lip, “Well, I got this phone – and the phone number too, of course – after my last one had a nasty run in with a cat and that... well that had to have been at least two years ago, so... May I ask why?”

“You may,” Sherlock replied absent-mindedly, thinking about how Molly could have possibly had his brother's phone number for that long. He distinctly remembered calling his brother with that number... or wait. His memories seemed fuzzy. He held his head in his free hand and winced as it began to throb. Had he been calling Molly, and not his brother? Yes, that made sense. 

“-lock?” A pause which he interpreted as her looking at her screen to see if the call was still connected. “Are you still there?”

“What? Yes. I have to go, thank you for your help.”

“Wait, Sherlock, why don't you come into work? There are some very interesting projects here for you. We could really use your help.”

A project. Yes, that might work well to distract him from his own fruitless examinations of his mind and overall soundness of thought. “Alright, I will see you at... work.”

Sherlock left the cafe and treaded to work. Walking to the office building felt so natural, he found he needn't think to know how to get there. The door was unlocked for him when he arrived and he made a mental note to ask Jim about his keycard. 

Molly waited for him on the third floor. She smiled and awkwardly debated whether to hug him or shake his hand, eventually deciding on a hug only to have Sherlock move towards a pile of blue-prints laid out upon the table saying, “Are these them, then?”

“Yeah.” She followed Sherlock over to the table. “Leonard left them here for you. He had to leave early to oversee the start of one of his most recent projects.”

Sherlock flicked through them, muttering, “Boring, boring, _boring_ \- oh, what's this?”

Molly glanced at the project he held. “That one was commissioned by the military. They have the technology to create it, but so far all the prototypes aren't energy-efficient or cost-effective.”

“I'll have a look at it then,” Sherlock decided, as he sifted through a few others and picked up a couple, “and these as well.” He moved towards the door when Molly's voice stopped him.

“Would you... would you like to catch up over some food? I can order Chinese. They deliver to the building.”

“Perhaps another time.” Sherlock paused in front of the door, playing around with an idea that sprung to the front of his mind. “Molly,” he called abruptly and she jumped.

“Yes?”

He turned to face her expectant eyes. “Do you remember when I came in the other day?”

“Of course. You used the x-ray machine and acted a little off.” She quickly continued, “Not that I blame you, I would probably be off too after all that happened...”

“Do you remember what I was scanning?” Sherlock searched the features of the one person – besides Jim – who remained from his old life. He found worry.

“Um, Sherlock, that's just it.”

“What, Molly?” He waited impatiently. “What's it?”

“You weren't scanning anything. I mean, you used the scanner, but you didn't place anything inside.”

 

Sherlock left as quickly as he could, pushing Molly's cries of, _“I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want you to feel bad. Sherlock, it's okay, wait-!”_ to the back of his mind. He had one objective in mind. He walked quickly down the snowy streets, careful not to slip on the ice. He hurried through the cold and ignored passersby who wished to speak with him. Only one thing mattered.

When he arrived home, he flung the doors open and made his way to the living room where he had stashed the briefcase. He felt beneath the sofa under which he had hidden it, only to feel cold dread as his hand met nothing. Getting down on his hands and knees, he peered beneath the sofa. Nothing but _dust_.

Sherlock strode about the room, tossing pillows off sofas, removing cushions, searching behind curtains, lifting up rugs. He moved the furniture this way and that, nearly toppled over the bookshelf and felt every nook and every cranny of the room before moving on to the next one. 

The consultant searched the house from top to bottom, leaving chaos in his wake. One servant asked if she could help him find something, but was ignored completely as Sherlock sent more cushions flying in the air. He tore apart the room he shared with Jim, searching the drawers, only to find notebook upon notebook filled with _novel plans_. He looked everywhere he could think to look, and in spaces ordinary people would not think to look in, to no avail. 

Sherlock sat on a sofa he had freed of its cushions amidst the destruction in the dark when Jim returned home. 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” the consultant's husband called. “Are you here?”

Sherlock heard the hushed whispers of one of the maids speaking to Moriarty. In a few moments a Jim-shaped silhouette stood in the doorway to the living room. 

“Sherlock,” Jim said softly, “are you alright, love?” 

“What have you done with it?” came the gruff response.

Jim moved into the room slowly, a caution in his measured step, “Done with what?”

“Oh, you can quit pretending,” Sherlock spat back. “I know you took it.”

“Alright, love, let's just calm down and we can discuss this together.”

“I am calm!” Sherlock shouted. Then corrected himself in a lowered tone, “I am calm.”

“Just tell me what's wrong, dear, then I'll see what I can do to help you, alright?”

“You took it. The briefcase. I know you must have taken it.” Sherlock pointed at the mess of a sofa besides the one he sat upon. “It was right there, but now it's gone.”

“I'm sure there's a logical explanation for this, love.” Jim moved closer, hands raised to show he meant no harm.

“Are you going to tell me I'm crazy?” Sherlock asked bitterly. “That my perception, the very trait of mine I trust the most, is flawed? Is that what you'll have me believe, because I'll not have it.” He glared up at the novelist.

“No, dear.” Jim sank to his knees before Sherlock. “You have a brilliant mind, one of the most brilliant minds of any I've had the pleasure of encountering. So what, it likes to play tricks on you? You are better than anyone I know at solving puzzles.” Jim took Sherlock's hands in his own, squeezing them gently. “This is just a puzzle, love, a game, if you will. You have the pieces, perhaps not all of them, but you _can_ solve it. I believe in you.” Jim kissed Sherlock's hands and looked up at him with only admiration in his dark chestnut eyes. “I believe in _you_.”

But Sherlock's eyes weren't focused on his husband at his feet. He stared at the window where, behind the tangled curtains, he saw the balding blond man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So is our dear Sherly crazy? Or are there tricks being played on him? Thoughts? comments? Love/hate? 
> 
> See you guys next time!  
> ~Scarrlet


	7. Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See warnings in the end notes (to avoid spoilers).

“What do you see?” His voice sounded like velvet made audible.

“You.”

“Just me?” His eyes were dark and all consuming. 

“Yes, right now, you are all I see.” Sherlock looked into Jim’s dark eyes from his place next to him on the bed. “I have an appointment.” He leaned forward and kissed his husband’s forehead before withdrawing. 

Jim stretched languidly out on the bed as Sherlock removed himself from the blankets. “I’ll come with you. It’s on my way to the gym.”

The engineer turned and raised a brow. “The gym?”

A sly smile spread itself across Jim’s features as he looked up at Sherlock from his place, laying upside down, on the bed. “Of course, love. Looking this good takes work.”

“Oh and here you had me thinking it just came naturally?” Sherlock smiled, pleased at Jim’s chuckle. He padded across the room and pulled on a white button-up shirt, a pair of dark slacks, a blue scarf, and his long winter coat. 

Jim, on the other hand, took his time piecing together his Westwood suit, taking care with each article of clothing as if it were made of glass and required delicate handling. “How have your appointments with Doctor Scoles been going? You seem a lot better.”

“I feel a lot better,” Sherlock said as he finished dressing and turned to face his husband. He raised a brow. “Westwood? To the gym?” 

“Westwood is good for _anywhere_.” Upon seeing Sherlock unconvinced, Jim continued, “I’m going to change when I get there. If I’m going to get sweaty, I might as well look good before hand.”

“Hm.” 

“What?” Jim’s eyes were wide, his lips widened in faux-shock, a smile threatening to ruin his facade and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile himself. 

“You are ridiculous.”

“Is that a deduction?” Jim taunted, moving across the room, closer to Sherlock, his dark eyes shining.

“It’s a logical construction, based off the evidence that-”

“Oh hush,” the writer said as he pressed a finger to Sherlock’s lips. “We have to go, otherwise we’ll be late.” 

“I’ve a feeling my psychiatrist won’t mind if you are the reason I’m late,” Sherlock commented, lips moving against the finger. Jim lowered it, instead tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and pulling him down into a kiss. Both men closed their eyes, letting the sensation overwhelm their minds.

_Buzz._

They both froze as Jim’s pocket vibrated loudly.

_Buzz, buzz, buzz._

Jim sighed. “One moment, love.” He turned away from Sherlock as he examined the messages. Sherlock leaned forward, looking over Jim’s shoulder. The phone screen snapped locked, but not before the engineer caught a glimpse of a message. “Are you ready to go?” Jim asked.

Sherlock nodded, words tight in his throat. His muscles relaxed when his husband took his hand and half-skipped with him out the room, down the stairs, and out to the Rolls-Royce that stood waiting for them. 

As the vehicle pulled away from the mansion house, Sherlock ran the text message over in his mind:

_The iceman is coming today._

~

“We’ll be back to pick you up after your appointment.” Jim kissed Sherlock goodbye before his husband exited the car in front of Doctor Scoles’ Center of Psychiatry. 

Sherlock turned away from the building the moment Moran had driven off. He walked briskly towards the alleyway where the balding man stood waiting for him. The man jumped upon seeing Sherlock approach. 

“I was afraid you weren’t coming!” His frantic eyes took in Sherlock, looking for something. 

The consulting engineer looked away. “I got held up.”

“Does he suspect you’ve been meeting with me?” the man whispered, eyes wide.

Sherlock regarded the man calmly as he spoke, “No, Jim doesn’t know anything.” 

“That’s good news.” His face tightened with a thought. “But how can you be sure?”

“There was a woman who approached us when we first met, do you remember her?” Sherlock asked.

The man paused before nodding. “One of Moriarty’s people. She could have told him!”

“I have been having trouble lately discerning reality from my imagination, so I went and found her. It wasn’t difficult, really. Do you know what she said when I asked her about that day?” Sherlock didn’t wait for the man’s response. “She said she saw me talking to myself and that’s why she came over to ask if I was alright. Peculiar, isn’t it?”

“Of course she said that! I told you, Moriarty owns this whole town. He definitely knows by now…” The man looked up and down the alleyway, as if expecting the townspeople to come and attack them both.

“You claim that you cannot be seen by anyone otherwise my husband will come and take you away, and yet if that were true, why are you still here?” Sherlock gazed down at the man, scrutinizing his responses. 

“He must know I told you that... If I disappeared then he would prove me right. He wants to control you, Mr. Holmes. He wants to consume you.” 

“If that is true, then I’ll figure that out for myself. This is our last meeting.” At the sight of the man ready to protest, Sherlock cut him off, “I will be returning to London in due time, I won’t lose sight of that, but in the meantime I do not see how our meetings will benefit either of us any more.”

“No!” The balding man rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Mr. Holmes, you need to come with me, you can’t stay here. It’s already been too long!”

Sherlock turned away from the man and began walking back the way he came. “Goodbye.”

~

The Nose smiled tightly when Sherlock entered her office, her glasses rising a bit on her nose with the action. “Thirty-two minutes late, Sherlock. You have been getting more and more tardy each appointment. Are you having reservations about coming to meet with me?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock replied as he took his seat opposite her. “Jim and I had a bit of a late morning.”

“Oh!” 

At the sparkle in her eyes, Sherlock shook his head. “No, not like that. But it was pleasant.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear regardless.” The Nose shuffled the papers on her desk. “Where would you like to begin today?”

Sherlock's grip on the armchair tightened slightly as he spoke, “I have been having trouble with reality.”

“Okay,” the Nose nodded. “What aspect of reality?”

“I sometimes see things that others do not.”

“That’s fairly normal for a schizophrenic. Since you are not taking the medication, you cannot expect the symptoms to go away altogether, but you can begin to recognize them and ignore them.”

Sherlock eyed the woman as he asked, “But is it not possible that the things I see are still real? The fact that others don’t see them doesn’t prove their nonexistence.” 

“No… That’s true, but there are times where you can look at what’s more likely to be true. We know that schizophrenia runs in your family and you have had episodes before. The likelihood of everyone else missing something that only you see is very low in comparison to the likelihood of you seeing something that isn’t real.”

“But not impossible.”

“Well, no,” the Nose replied, looking up from her notes to examine her patient. “Nothing is impossible, but in order to live in this world without losing yourself, I find it best to look for the logic.”

“I agree.” Sherlock met his psychiatrist’s gaze. “That is why I want to go to London.”

She smiled at him. “The setting of your husband’s books.” 

Sherlock nodded. “I feel that I can finally know for myself what is real and what’s my imagination if I go to the base of my uncertainties and have a look for myself.”

“You do know, Sherlock, that your husband’s books are quite popular. They even have a whole Baker Street museum dedicated to Harrison and Watson.”

“That’s different from the real thing. I hardly think that would confuse me.”

The Nose nodded. “Very well, I think it is definitely worth considering. In our next appointment, you and your husband should come in to discuss this together, if that is alright with you.” 

“Next week then.” 

Sherlock waited outside the office, scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face as he played events through his mind. The Nose hadn’t said no. She seemed quite fond of the idea of him going to London. Jim had said he would gladly go with Sherlock when the Nose deemed it an appropriate time. Still, the text message tugged at Sherlock. The Iceman was Brooks’ nickname for Mycroft. Why would Jim be messaging someone about the Iceman unless Mycroft was actually out there and coming? 

The silver Rolls-Royce pulled up smoothly alongside the kerb. Moran got out and held the door open for Sherlock. Jim’s gym bag sat on the seat between Sherlock and his husband.

“How did it go?” Jim asked.

“It went well. Doctor Scones would like you to come with me to our next appointment to discuss going to London.”

Jim laughed. “I hope Doctor _Scoles_ hasn’t figured out you don’t know her name yet.” He moved the gym bag over. “That’s great news.”

“How was the gym?” 

“Oh, you know,” Sherlock was taken by how his husband’s eyes sparkled when he gave that cheeky smile, “smelly.”

They pulled up to the house and Sherlock and Jim walked side by side, shoulders rubbing with each step, Moran just behind them. When Jim pulled the door open, talking about some sort of promotional party, Sherlock froze. 

“Sherlock?” Jim stopped, noticing the consultant was no longer by his side. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock only stared at the balding man standing in the room. “What are you doing here?” 

“You said you didn’t believe I was real. I’m going to prove it to you, Mr. Holmes.” The man rocked from foot to foot, eyes crazy. “I have to make you see.” 

“Sherlock, what are you talking about, what’s going on?” Jim asked, eyes searching the space where the balding man stood.

“Don’t you see him?” Sherlock asked, waving a hand towards the man. “He’s standing right there.” 

Moran must have closed the front door because the cold draft stopped. “I don’t see anyone, Boss,” Moran commented. 

“They’re lying!” the man shouted. “They see me!” He pulled a knife out of his pocket and Sherlock rushed forward only to freeze when the man moved behind Jim. “They can see me, Sherlock. They’re just playing with you, don’t you see?” 

“Move away from him,” Sherlock warned. 

“Move away from whom? Sherlock, who are you talking to?” Jim asked, his eyes desperate. 

“You can stop this any time, Moriarty!” the man shouted at the writer. “Stop pretending!” He raised his knife.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how it happened. He had acted so quickly. One moment the balding man was raising the knife above Jim, the next Sherlock had pulled Moran’s gun from its holster and fired. Twin screams pierced the air at the same time. The balding man fell to the ground, blood pouring across the mahogany floorboards at the same time that Jim doubled over, clutching his arm. 

The kitchen staff had come out and they were screaming. Moran knocked the gun out of Sherlock’s hands. “Look what you’ve done!” he shouted. 

Sherlock’s ears felt like they were filled with cotton. He fell to his knees in the blood, so much blood. He faintly heard someone say something about an ambulance. Moran was cradling Jim in his arms, covering the bullet wound with his own hand, blood gushing out and mingling with the balding man’s blood on the floor. 

“I killed him,” Sherlock whispered. 

“You didn’t,” Moran said to him. “He’s alive, but he’s losing a lot of blood. We need to get him to the hospital.” 

“No, _him_.” Sherlock raised a blood-covered hand to point at the balding man, lying dead upon the floorboards. 

“There’s no one there,” Moran said. “You just shot your husband.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You’re lying. The iceman, all day you two have been keeping that from me. My brother is coming.” 

“You, there,” Moran called a kitchen worker over. “Put pressure on this and don’t let go.” She nodded and Moran approached Sherlock. He pulled the consultant to his feet and dragged him to the kitchen. Sherlock struggled. “Quit it and _look_.” Moran pulled open the freezer. Inside were bags and bags of ice.

“I don’t-”

“Mr. Moriarty is planning on throwing a promotional party for his recent release. The _iceman_ came and brought ice for the refreshments today.”

There were flashing lights. Moran left Sherlock standing there, shaking, as the ambulances took his husband away. How could he have been so wrong? Sherlock walked through the main room, past all the blood and upstairs to the room he shared with Jim. Curled up on the floor, he closed his eyes to the world around him and went to his mind palace. He walked through room after room, trying to figure out where he went wrong. 

Hours must have passed, because it was pitch dark out when Sherlock noticed the door to the room open. “Sherly,” Jim whispered. A warm hand wrapped around him and guided him to his feet.

Jim led him to the bathroom and only there did Sherlock dare take in his husband. Jim had a bandage wrapped around his upper left arm. “It only grazed me, just looked a lot worse than it was because of all the blood.”

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked as his husband tenderly washed the blood from Sherlock’s hands.

“I’m taking care of you.”

“Why?” Sherlock tried to look away, but Jim held him with one hand and looked into his eyes. Sherlock said quietly, “I’m not good for you.”

“I’ll always be here for you, Sherly. The man I fell in love with was good and you still are that man.” Jim wiped a wet rag across Sherlock’s face, staring at him as if he were the most beautiful thing on the earth. “You fight on the side of the angels, and sometimes that’s not easy. Sometimes devils are there to tempt angels, to convince them to Fall, but you can rise, love. I know you can, I just need you to know it.” Jim leaned forward hesitantly before placing a kiss on his husband’s lips. “I love you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock searched the man’s chestnut eyes. He brushed a stray lock of brown hair from his husband’s face and whispered, almost too soft to be heard, “I love you too, Jim.”

He leaned down and kissed Jim slowly at first, then passionately. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his husband, careful to avoid his injured shoulder. They stumbled, breathless, back to their bedroom and fell upon the bed. Overwhelming need consumed Sherlock as he pulled Jim close to him. Everything he had been denying himself came rushing in. Tears escaped his eyes against his will and Jim pulled back.

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock nodded. “Don’t stop.”

“You’re certain this is what you want?” Sherlock wanted to reach up and pull Jim back towards him, but his husband was straddling his waist with a look of slight reservation on his face.

Sherlock nodded in reassurance. “Yes. Yes, this is what I want.”

Jim leaned down and claimed Sherlock’s mouth, his tongue wrapping around Sherlock’s, filling Sherlock with the well-remembered taste of his husband. Sherlock helped Jim out of his shirt and removed his own, only breaking contact with his husband long enough to get it over his head. Jim sucked deeply on Sherlock’s neck as the consultant struggled to get both of their pants off. When they both writhed together, naked and bare to the world, Sherlock reached into their nightstand drawer and pulled out the lubrication. 

Jim’s eyes widened as Sherlock placed it into his hand. “You’re sure?”

Sherlock claimed Jim’s lips in response, wrapping his legs around his husband’s waist. Jim moaned in approval and spread the lube over his fingers. He stroked Sherlock’s length before delving two fingers deep inside his husband’s warmth. Sherlock squirmed, but Jim’s ministrations left him leaning in for more. Sherlock spread the lube along Jim’s length, running his slender hands up and down before guiding it to his opening. 

Jim took Sherlock’s lips, breathed Sherlock in as he pushed slowly into his tight warmth. He swallowed Sherlock’s cries and buried himself to the hilt. The pair sat in the dark room, panting, joined in deeper union than any other before Jim began to move. Jim pulled himself almost to the point of exiting his husband’s body before slamming back in. Sherlock snapped towards Jim, moaning in pleasure at the completeness he felt. They fell into rhythm with one another, shaking, writhing, thrusting. 

The pair became more sporadic in their movements. Sherlock covered Jim with wet kisses as Jim pulled on Sherlock’s length with each thrust. His strokes quickened, his grip tightening with each jerk until Sherlock was a mess of twitching nerves under his hands. Sherlock’s came with Jim’s name on his tongue, arching upward and tightening around Jim. Jim exploded within Sherlock, shuddering as he collapsed atop him.

They laid together, sweaty and exhausted in the dark, catching their breaths before Jim pulled out. Sherlock took his husband in his arms. He buried his nose in Jim’s neck and inhaled deeply. “Never let me go?” he whispered as sleepy fogginess began to cloud his mind.

Jim stroked Sherlock’s forehead in revelry. “Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence, a bit of gore, sexually explicit material.
> 
> I have the rest of this story planned, but each chapter seems to take a surprising turn when I write it. I'd love to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> Yours,  
> Scarrlet


	8. Dreaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, I have a notebook now that is completely dedicated to this story and I have been writing in it covertly on my commute to uni. This chapter has a shift in tone from the last one. I hope you like it!

“Honestly, I am aware that average people aren’t that bright, but to use bamboo filaments when copper works better and is more easily found-”

_ Knock knock _ .

Jim, sprawled across Sherlock’s lap with the duvet covering his lower half, stopped scrawling in his notebook and looked towards the bedroom door. Sherlock raised a brow at him that said,  _ I’m not getting it _ . “I’m comfy,” Jim whined, then louder when Sherlock showed no signs of moving, “You can leave it by the door, Sarah.”

The door opened to reveal Moran with their breakfast. 

“Oh!” Jim exclaimed with a smile. “Sebby! Where’s Sarah?”

Moran placed the tray on their bedside table, gaze averting Sherlock. “Sarah told me she doesn’t feel comfortable bringing the food up.”

Sherlock appreciated how Jim’s face scrunched in confusion. “We’re under the covers,” his husband said. “And besides, I told her she can leave the tray outside the door.” 

“No,” Sebastian moved closer to Jim and Sherlock felt protectiveness twinge in his gut. “She’s uncomfortable because the man you’re spending all your mornings with is an unchecked psychopath.”

“Schizophrenic, Moran,” Sherlock corrected, appreciating how closely the man’s name resembled  _ moron _ , a more fitting title for him. He rested a hand on Jim’s warm, bare back, appreciating the way Moran’s left eye twitched. “If you are going to insult someone based on his mental affliction, please do try to get it right.”

Moran’s blue eyes snapped to meet Sherlock’s for the first time since he entered the room. “What difference does the word make? You nearly killed your own husband and now you’ve had him in here for the last week, refusing to go to publicity events or throw his promotional party so he can do God knows what with you.”

Sherlock regarded the bodyguard calmly. “What Jim does is Jim’s choice, but this isn’t about Jim at all, is it?” He eyed Moran and then chuckled. “Ah no. You haven’t been sleeping, I’d say you’ve been terribly stressed this past week, but you’re not worried about your boss. No. You’re worried about yourself, Moran. You’re afraid that your beloved boss is going to fire you because you can’t do your job. You couldn’t even keep his husband, who you know to be a schizophrenic, from stealing your gun and shooting him. Honestly, I don’t see why he keeps you around-”

The door slammed and Sherlock smirked at the angry, hurt look he’d glimpsed on Moran’s face before he left. He had deduced correctly then. 

“Be careful, Sherlock,” Jim whispered, “he’s a sensitive one.”

Sherlock huffed. “I hope you didn’t marry me for me delicacy with others’ feelings. Why do you keep him on staff anyway?” 

Jim looked at the closed door where Moran had been as he softly said, “He had a rough upbringing, and he really is quite talented.”

Sherlock leaned forward and looked deep into Jim’s eyes, close enough to feel the shuttered breath that escaped his husband’s parted lips. He had never before noticed the flecks of gray, like stardust, scattered in Jim’s eyes. He closed the space between their lips, memorizing how his husband’s moved against his own and the weightless feeling the kiss brought to his stomach. He pulled away. “Don’t get too attached to him, Jim. He has a classic anankastic personality type. He wants you dependent upon him.”

“That will never happen,” Jim said, searching Sherlock’s eyes, “because the only person I couldn’t live without is you.” He stared at Sherlock with an intensity that seemed to ask if the sentiment was returned.

Sherlock pressed Jim into the sheets in response, interlocking their fingers and committing to memory the little noises his husband made - noises Sherlock made him make. 

_ So this is how it feels to fly _ .

 

Jim’s lips tasted of peppermint and his mouth of chocolate on the day he surprised Sherlock with two tickets to the Paris Construction Convention. 

“Are you certain you can take all this time off of work?” Sherlock knew how much Jim’s novels meant to him.

“Yes! Of course, don’t you worry.” Jim wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and smiled into his neck. “Besides, I’m working on a new novel, and my publicity team is handling everything else. I promised to host that promotional party at our home after we get back. It won’t be an overly large crowd, just some big names in the industry, my agent, some reporters…”

With everything settled, they packed their bags and took the 11am train from Dublin to Paris, first class seats. Sherlock felt no small amount of smugness at Moran’s lingering gaze from the Rolls-Royce as the consultant walked with his hand on the small of Jim’s back to the station. 

On the train, Jim buried himself in his notebooks - writing, muttering, scratching things out. Sherlock had discovered it best to leave Jim to his craft when he got like that after having had a mug thrown at him and a stream of words curse him for causing Jim’s loss of concentration on a vital scene. Sherlock busied himself by revisiting his mind palace’s construction projects. He entered a particularly cold room reserved for the construction of the Paris metro. Over 100 deaths, countless collapsed tunnels, halted progress due to permafrost. The now celebrated metro system truly had dark beginnings, as so many praised works do.

The air in Paris smelled of baguettes and cigarette smoke when he and Jim exited the train at the Gare du Nord, hand in hand. Jim made Sherlock order them  _ pains au chocolat _ and  _ cafes noisettes _ because he adored his husband’s French. The locals too seemed impressed. 

On the first day of the conference, Jim laughed as Sherlock nearly got them kicked out by arguing with Elon Musk, a renowned environmental engineer, on the efficiency of his car’s electrical setup. 

“It simply isn’t logical to have horizontal panels when you could put them diagonally in order to maximise your energy efficiency. The way he has it now, the panels will have to be replaced every five years as opposed to ten if-” Sherlock cocked his head to the side upon seeing Jim, sitting at his side, smiling at him. “What?” 

“You,” Jim replied, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s nice seeing you like this.” 

Sherlock felt that warmth in his stomach again.  _ This _ , he wondered,  _ is chemicals? _

The conference flew by in a flash of information, of tender embraces in the hotel, of gleeful excitement when Jim saw his books featured in the infamous Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore. Sherlock and Jim strolled the chilly Parisian streets, running from the bus stop to their hotel in the rain on the third day, sitting on the terrace sipping espressos in between events while stylish Parisians enveloped them in a cloud of smoke. 

On the last day of the conference, Sherlock was reading about how a common man won a construction competition by putting his wet mug on the blueprints and realizing an arched bridge with the solution, when he saw her. “Harry,” read her name tag. She had dirty blond hair and leftover lipstick on her neck. Gay, then. He scrutinised her further, something about her itched at his mind. She had light blue eyes and her fingers fidgeted with her jacket’s zip in nervousness - no, as a symptom of prolonged alcoholism - as she looked at the exposition next to him. He felt like she was someone he once knew, in a dream. 

“I got you a little something, darling~.”

Sherlock turned to face Jim. His husband’s cheeks were scarlet as he held out the cup.  _ World’s Greatest Engineer _ . “I figured I had to get it for the person it’s referring to.” 

Sherlock thanked him with a kiss, but in the back of his mind, he couldn’t forget the image of the woman.

 

“Honey, are you going to help me or do you plan on watching me drop all these trays?”

Sherlock snapped out of his mind palace and registered his husband standing before him, balancing four platters of hors-d'oeuvres. “I thought this is why we have servants,” Sherlock muttered, but stepped forward and took two trays - one with fish eggs on crackers, the other with camembert - from his husband. “Where do these go?”

“Just put them on that table over there.” Jim directed Sherlock with a lift of his nose. Sherlock hid his smile with a grimace so his husband wouldn’t think he was actually enjoying the thought of having people in their home. “The servants are running errands and cooking today. They’re going to have a long night, so I figured helping set up would lessen the load on them.”

_ And take away the time I have you all to myself. _ Sherlock shook himself when he caught himself staring at his husband’s toned abdominal muscles, visible through his soft cotton shirt, a shirt Sherlock knew would be replaced with Jim’s Westwood silk by the evening. His fingers twitched at his side, longing to run across Jim’s chest. 

A wave of dizziness suddenly crashed over him and Sherlock barely saved the trays as he tumbled to the floor, his knees smacking against the hard wood. 

Jim was at his side in a second. “Sherly, are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock shrugged off Jim’s tender touch, but allowed him to take the trays and set them down on the table. When Sherlock tried to get up, the dizziness came back stronger and he would have collapsed completely if it weren’t for Jim’s iron grip on his forearms. “Bathroom.”

“What?”

“I need the bathroom,  _ now _ .”

With his husband half-dragging him, Sherlock barely made it to the bathroom in time to puke out the contents of his stomach. Jim knelt besides him, rubbing soothing circles across his back for the fifteen to twenty minutes Sherlock spent heaving. 

The consultant collapsed, back against the bathroom wall, and tried not to inhale the reek of acidic vomit for fear he would start heaving anew. He looked into his husband’s eyes as his mind raced. Mood swings, fatigue, possessiveness, dizziness, and now this. He knew what it meant. His voice cracked, “I’m pregnant.” 

Jim crouched before Sherlock, hands reaching towards him and stopping just short. Emotions flashed across his face: excitement, fear, worry. “Do you want me to cancel tonight? I can if you want.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You’ve already put it off enough. Besides, tickets have been purchases, hotels have been booked. It would only complicate things to cancel it now.”

“But-”

“No.” Sherlock met Jim’s eyes. “I’ll be… fine. I’d just like to rest for a bit before people get here.”

Jim helped Sherlock to his feet, aiding him with the mouthwash before walking him to their room. The consultant tried to ignore the concern written across his husband’s face, the whiteness of his knuckles. Jim helped him into the bed before stiffly leaving.

Sherlock could feel his heart racing, pounding in his chest and, for once, he couldn’t pinpoint its cause.  _ Anxiety _ , he wondered,  _ excitement? Or else a mere effect of hormone changes? _ How would this impact his mental state, his ability to work? Was this life worth giving up his own for nine months - and then changing his lifestyle forever after that? Would Jim want it - Yes. He knew his husband would, knew he did. But if Sherlock didn’t, then would Jim fight him? He didn’t know his husband’s view on abortion, it wasn’t something they had discussed - or else it wasn’t something he remembered if they had. 

“Ahem.”

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. He hadn’t realised he had begun plucking his violin, hadn’t remembered pulling it from its case. Its sweet notes were his own unusually jumbled thoughts materialised around him. Moran stood at the edge of the room, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched sheepishly as opposed to their usual soldier straightness. 

“Yes?”

“Boss seems really worried.” Moran’s gaze flitted around the room, reflecting his inner nervousness. He felt out of place, Sherlock realised. Apparently the consultant’s words had gotten to him.

“And?”

“Well… he only gets that way when it’s something about you. I just,” the bodyguard cleared his throat, “uh, wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh, okay then. I guess I’ll just-”

“Wait.” Sherlock stopped him before he could leave the room. He wasn’t sure why he did it exactly. Maybe the hormones were making him soft. “I’m pregnant.”

“Oh.” Moran’s eyes widened. “Oh!”

Sherlock observed the man passively, hands idly playing with his violin. He noted how Moran’s cheeks heated up and how he began bouncing on the balls of his feet. Calm in violent circumstances, but nervous in social ones. Sherlock was sure it had to do with his upbringing that Jim had mentioned. 

“Well, that explains it!” Moran proclaimed. “Boss is afraid you won’t keep it.”

So there it was. “He’s not… upset?” Sherlock’s stomach twisted with the thought.

“God no.” Moran laughed - a nervous, light laugh. “You guys have been planning for this for… who knows how long. Oh, but you do still want a child don’t you?” At Sherlock’s silence, Moran turned solemn. “I see.” The guard sat down on the floor by the door, one leg outstretched before him, and let out a huff. “You’re afraid.”

“I’m what?” Sherlock challenged, half-indignant, half-curious. 

Moran waved a hand through the air, dismissing it. “It’s only natural, shows you’re human just like the rest of us. I mean, it makes sense to wonder what kind of father you’ll be, how your child will turn out, if you’ll be there for him, how you’ll feel about him and he about you.”

“Him?” Sherlock rested a hand on his stomach. “I always wanted a daughter.” His discussions with Jim snapped back to him, like a tidal wave crashing over his mind. All their planning, their research - he could almost feel Jim kissing him tenderly, speaking of how beautiful their child would be.

Moran was speaking, but Sherlock couldn’t hear him. He placed his violin in its case and pushed himself to his feet, steadying himself with the bedpost before moving purposefully down the stairs and into the room where his husband directed some servants - back with groceries - where to place everything.

Jim turned to him, still looking weary. “Hi, Love, are you feeling-” 

Sherlock took Jim’s face in his hands and kissed him, breathing him in, appreciating how the writer’s legs trembled and his arms latched onto Sherlock for support.

Sherlock pulled back and whispered, “I’ll keep it.”

The glow that came to his husband’s face was worth everything. He could only hope that together they would be able to do this. Sherlock had never seen himself as good with children, had never envisioned having one of his own. Not until he met James Moriarty. With that man, anything seemed possible.

The guests came trickling in at 7pm. Sherlock kept to his couch, observing them and their interactions with his husband. A tall bald man wore a pressed shirt with his business cards in the right-hand pocket. He lingered near Jim, smiling widely and shaking hands with the other guests as they arrived. Sherlock decided he must be his husband’s agent. It was obvious how much the man valued Jim.

A woman in a suit who wore a cross around her neck smiled tight-liply when greeting Jim. Sherlock suspected she did not like Jim nor his novels, but had to come out of a professional obligation. 

The noise level increased as people became inebriated (something Sherlock realised he would not be able to do for some time now). He still could not shake the lingering possessiveness and was beginning to wonder if it would ever dissipate. When someone put a hand on Jim’s back, Sherlock wanted to slap it off, to grab his husband and steal him from the world. 

“Sherlock!” Molly, wearing light pink lipstick that would have made her lips blend in with her skin tone had it not been for her rosy blush, made her way to him through the crowd and sat next to him on the sofa, a glass of red wine in her hand. “This is some party! I can’t remember the last time I was in your and Jim’s home.”

“Why are you here now?” At her look of dejection, Sherlock clarified, “I thought this was just for publishers and reporters.”

“Oh! Didn’t Jim tell you?” Molly took a sip of her wine and smiled lightly. “He invited me because he thought you might be a bit bored with all the literary folk.”

“Ah.” And Molly was to remedy his boredom how exactly?

“You know, it’s kinda funny, actually. Jim’s books, I mean.”

“In what way are those tragic things funny?”

“Not the books themselves! I just mean… Sometimes I have dreams about them, except not quite the books.”

Sherlock, whose eyes had been tracking Jim’s movements, turned his gaze upon Molly. “Go on.”

“Well…” She bit her lip. “Maybe this will sound silly, but I’ve dreamt about that one scene a lot, The Fall, I think it was called. Only it didn’t go how it went in the books. In my dreams, you’re afraid Jim is going to do something reckless so you ask me to help you save him. Or maybe you asked me to help save you?”

“You don’t remember?” 

Molly laughed. “You know how dreams are, you only have a fleeting sense of them. Once you wake up, it’s hard to recall the details, what actually happened and what you’ve used to fill in the gaps afterwards.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied absentmindedly, his gaze returning to Jim. “It’s hard to know, once you’ve woken up, whether or not your dream was reality and your reality is just the dream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if there are errors, tried my best to edit it, but I know I miss things sometimes. What do you guys think? I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> See you at chapter nine!  
> ~ Scarrlet


	9. Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jim decide to go to London. Moran third-wheels it out. Also, Jim finds things cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with a new chapter! I haven't forgotten about this story and I don't plan on forgetting it any time soon. I actually met Andrew Scott in this past year. He was so nice! And I finally caught up with Sherlock. Omg. Such feels. Hope you guys like the new chapter!

“I love your Rolls Royce,” Sherlock whispered into Jim’s ear. 

Sherlock sat with his left thigh touching his husband’s right one in the back of the vehicle. Moran eyed the pair in the rearview mirror and Sherlock knew he could see that Jim’s cheeks were bright red. “Do you now? I thought the only material item you loved was your violin.”

“Oh, yes, but there isn’t room to screw you on my violin.” 

Jim fumbled to hit the divider that cut off the driver from viewing his passengers when Sherlock licked the shell of his ear and climbed onto his lap. Moran kept his eyes on the road, his grip tight on the wheel as the divider went up.

Jim could hardly breathe, Sherlock was consuming him. “A bit frisky, are you?” he gasped out when his husband released his mouth. 

“You’ve been having so much company over lately,” the consultant said as he undid his husband’s trousers and pulled down his pants, “this is the first time I’ve had you to myself.”

“I’m sure- ah- Moran would disagree.” 

“Shut up and fuck me.” Sherlock left no room for argument as he pulled down his own pants and prepped himself with a bottle of lube he had stored in his coat pocket. He positioned himself above Jim before inching down onto him. 

“God, Sherly,” Jim gasped and pulled his husband down by his dark curls into a sloppy kiss. An abrupt turn sent the pair smacking into the back of the seats in front of them.

“Harder.” 

Jim’s sweaty skin stuck to the leather seat as he snapped his hips up again and again. Sherlock grinded down on his husband. “ _ Yes _ ,” he praised as his muscles tensed and pleasure shot through him. Jim wasn’t far behind him. After a few more thrusts, he reached orgasm deep inside Sherlock’s warmth. 

The pair lay together panting, sweat-stricken, for a few minutes before they heard a gentle  _ tap tap _ against the window. Sherlock laughed when he saw Moran standing stiffly by the passenger door, looking pointedly away from them. He pulled himself off Jim and put back on his pants and trousers. The writer quickly followed suit, but was unable to fix his sex-swept hair. 

“Ah, thank you Sebastian,” Moriarty said as he stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Yes, thank you Sebastian,” Sherlock mimicked with a smirk. 

Moran said nothing as he closed the door and stood besides the Rolls Royce. 

Sherlock took Jim’s right hand in his ringed left one, trying to walk as normal as he could, as they entered the building and Doctor Scoles’ office. 

“Mr. Moriarty, Mr. Holmes,” the Nose greeted. “Please, have a seat, we have much to discuss.”

Sherlock glared at the egg-shell white armchairs and wished the Nose could close the blinds so that the room would be less blinding. Jim nudged him forward and they both took their seats, fingers still intertwined.

“Are you aware why you’re both here?” The psychiatrist looked at each of them in turn through her spectacles. 

“To discuss going to London,” Jim offered.

“Yes, that was the initial plan for this meeting. However, that was before Sherlock got hold of a firearm and sent you to the hospital.” 

“What?” Jim laughed, and Sherlock could hear a nervous edge to that laugh. He hoped the psychiatrist couldn’t. “What are you talking about?” Jim’s grip tightened slightly and Sherlock held his tongue.

“Come now, don’t play dumb with me. One of our most renowned residents ends up in the hospital because of a gunshot wound, and I’m supposed to assume it was from one of your hired help?”

“Or someone wanted me dead.” 

The Nose raised a brow. She looked disapprovingly at the couple before speaking, “Well, Mr. Moriarty, you should be more careful from now on. This sort of stress is the last thing Sherlock needs right now.”

“You won’t find any disagreement here. Which brings us to the topic of London. Sherly and I had a great time in Paris, but we think,” Jim met Sherlock’s gaze before continuing, “we think going to London would help us put this all behind us.”

“And I think that would be great too, but Sherlock has been trying so hard the past few weeks. I don’t want to rush and put him into a position where success will be limited.” The Nose turned to her patient. “How do you feel about this?”

Sherlock rubbed his stomach with his free hand. Too soon to tell her, he decided. “I have been feeling more lucid lately. There are still moments where things are… uncertain, foggy if you will, but these have been less and less frequent as of late. I don’t see a need to put off visiting London.”

Sherlock’s pants stuck uncomfortably to his thighs as the Nose leafed through her notes before setting them down in a neat stack and nodding. “Okay. If you both,” she eyed Sherlock as she spoke the word, “believe you are ready, then I see no point in holding off on your London trip.” 

Jim and Sherlock shared a look, faint smiles on their lips.

“However,” the Nose continued, “I would like you two to stick together the entire time. Mr. Moriarty, you will need to be alert throughout the trip and listen carefully to what your husband expresses. Mr. Holmes, if at any point you wish to return from your trip early, I encourage you to do so. There’s no point in rushing this, but I do feel a successful trip could do wonders for your progress.”

 

Sherlock breathed in the brisk air as he exited the train. The grey skies and the scent of exhaust and chips felt like home. He took Jim’s hand and they shared a smile. 

“I’ll hail a cab,” Moran interrupted the moment. He dragged their luggage to the kerb and raised a hand.

“Did we really have to bring him?” 

“Darling,” Jim replied, “the world’s a dangerous place. Besides, my books take place in London. We’ll need him if we don’t want to be signing autographs, shaking hands, and posing for pictures our entire stay.” 

Sherlock scoffed, but didn’t argue any further. A cabbie was already loading their suitcases into the boot of his car. Sherlock insisted on sitting in between his husband and his husband’s lacky. He leaned against Jim and rested his head on his shoulder as they sped down the wet streets.

As loathe as he was to admit it, Moran’s presence did come in use countless times, especially when visiting the John Harrison museum on Baker Street. Sherlock almost wished he could clone Moran when fanatics reached out with their grubby hands to touch himself and his husband. He smacked away the hands that managed to find purchase on Jim’s suit jacket, but that only made the fans even more pleased. They flashed pictures with their cell phones and the museum quickly lost its appeal. 

“How do you stand it?” Sherlock asked when standing in line with Jim and Moran, waiting to board the Eye of London. The people around them were whispering and pointing, taking photos of them when they thought the couple wasn’t looking. 

“Hm?” Jim licked sticky cotton candy off his fingers, clutching the cone with the uneaten half of his treat in his other hand.

“The…” he lowered his voice, “the people. Their non-stop stares. It’s maddening.”

“You think so? I think it’s cute.” 

“Cute? Cute!” Necks craned when Sherlock raised his voice. He lowered it once more. “This is harassment. It is  _ not _ cute.” 

“Well, darling, why don’t we give them a reason to stare?” Jim shoved his cotton candy into Moran’s hands. He stepped closer to Sherlock, until their chests were touching, wrapped his arms around his husband’s neck, stood on his tippy toes and kissed him. The kiss was anything but chaste. Teeth, tongue - an animalistic claiming of Sherlock. The engineer reciprocated, pulling Jim flush against him.

When they pulled apart, everyone was looking pointedly away. Jim’s smile was absolutely feral when he took Sherlock’s hand and said, “Shall we?” 

They boarded the Eye and Moran clambered into the gondola after them, munching on the remnants of the cotton candy. Jim pulled off a fluffy piece and pressed it into Sherlock’s mouth before kissing him again.

The fact that their kiss had made the cover of  _ The Daily Telegraph _ shouldn’t have been a surprise. Still, Sherlock pressed his face into the hotel pillows when Jim showed it to him. 

“I should write a story about this,” Jim was saying as he dressed for the day, “ _ John Harrison and the Incident at the Eye _ .” Sherlock groaned. “No, you’re right. Too insipid.” 

“Evidently not if it made the front cover.” Sherlock rolled over and rubbed his face. His husband smiled at him in the mirror. 

“Did anyone ever tell you how adorable you look with bedhead?”

Sherlock frowned and sat up. His hair stuck up in five different directions. “No, because it’s not true.”

“Oh, yes it is.” 

“No.” He shook his head. “It isn’t.”

Jim turned from the mirror and crawled onto the bed. He moved with the grace of a tiger across the duvet. “ _ Yes _ , love, it  _ is _ .” 

Before Sherlock had time to argue further, Jim pounced on him, capturing his lips. They rolled around on the bed, play-fighting and laughing. “God, I love you.” The words were so easy on Sherlock’s tongue. He stared up into Jim’s sparkling eyes. His husband kissed him once more before hopping off the bed.

“Look what you’ve done now.” He brushed his hands over his clothes, trying to straighten out the wrinkles.

“Me? I do believe that fault is entirely yours.” Sherlock stood and nearly stepped on Moran who was sleeping next to the bed. “Are we going to wake him?”

“I don’t know.” Jim peered down at the sleeping bodyguard. “He looks so innocent when he’s asleep.”

Sherlock glanced at his watch:  _ 9:32 am _ . He shoved Moran with a foot and the bodyguard jolted upright. “W-What’s going on? Is everyone okay?” he asked. 

Jim shook his head but turned to the door. “Get dressed, Seb. We’re going to be late to high tea.” 

They made it to high tea at 10:16 after a crowded ride in the Tube. A young woman had used Sherlock as a pole to keep balanced during the commute and Jim had laughed about it for half the day. The Soho Secret Tea Room had been a worthy visit despite being a bit tricky to find. They had to ask the Soho Bar about it before being escorted upstairs to a quaint tea room where they were able to drink and eat without being disturbed. Sherlock had enjoyed the Chinese specialty tea called the Iron Buddha, while Jim had gone with a passion fruit green tea. 

Moran was surprisingly quiet throughout the day. Sherlock suspected he felt guilty for not waking up at the alarm. The engineer had begun to learn that Moran’s vigilance and skill with firearms were among his most prized assets. Jim didn’t seem to mind. He dragged Sherlock through the familiar London streets, taking pictures in an arcade photo booth while Moran stood outside, and failing at the claw machines. Sherlock managed to win Jim a small unicorn Pusheen cat with rainbow hair and a rainbow tail. 

Jim practically skipped down the London streets. He swung his and Sherlock’s linked hands between them and Moran glared at those who stared for too long. “Fish and chips!” he exclaimed when he saw the food stand. Sherlock made a face and Jim gasped. “Fish and chips, Sherly! You can’t come to London and not get fish and chips.”

“Fine, fine, go ahead.” 

Jim was ordering three meals with Moran hovering over his shoulder when Sherlock noticed a homeless woman and a child. The child, who couldn’t have been more than seven years old, waved at Sherlock. The woman smiled and Sherlock felt stricken by her familiarity. He approached her. 

“Haven’t seen you lately,” the rag-clad woman said.

“Sorry?”

“As you should be. There’s been a lot of talk about a kidnapping with no ransom. I heard the suits going on about it. They’re awfully concerned.” 

“A kidnapping? Why are you telling this to me?” Sherlock was certain he must have been mistaken. He didn’t know this woman, nor the child. He glanced back to his husband. Jim was still at the fish and chips stand. 

The child took Sherlock’s hand and smiled up at him with a mouth missing teeth. What few teeth she had were already rotting. The woman replied, “Because, Mr. Holmes, you’re the one they’ve been talking about.” 

_ Prick _ . Sherlock saw the syringe after he felt it pinch his wrist. The child continued smiling as she removed it from his skin. The world swam. “Wait… Jim...” Sherlock put his hands over his abdomen to protect the baby, but arms caught him as he fell.

 

“Wakey, wakey, Mr. Holmes.” 

Before opening his eyes, Sherlock assessed the situation. He was chained to a wooden chair if the weight upon his wrists and the sensation of the armrest were any indication. The air was musty, but warm. A light shone on his face, but he suspected the room was otherwise dark. He was underground somewhere then, likely in an unused corridor of the Tube. 

“Mr. Holmes, we haven’t all day.”

A female voice, English, but unfamiliar. He opened his eyes. A blond woman with blue eyes stared intently at him. She wore black, leather clothes and black, leather gloves. “Who are you?”

“A concerned friend.” 

Sherlock could still feel the effects from the drug thrumming through his system. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth as he scoffed. “Friend? I don’t have many of those, let alone friends who use children as a means to kidnap people.”

“Unfortunately, I didn’t have much of a choice.” The woman pulled a chair out of the shadows and sat parallel to Sherlock, studying him. “By my estimation, we have seven minutes.”

“Before what?”

“Before your husband and his lapdog find us. I’ll be direct for the sake of time.”

“Please do.” Sherlock scanned the room: concrete walls and dirt floors that shook occasionally. His Tube guess was correct. 

“James Moriarty is not what he appears to be. He isn’t a mere author. His brother isn’t just a station master. The Moriartys have been influencing civilisations for decades upon decades. They take what they want and no one defies them. No one can catch them, can prove what they’re doing.”

_ Lunacy _ . “What are you going on about?”  _ This woman is insane _ .

“You, Sherlock. James Moriarty wanted  _ you _ . So he took you.” Her jaw tightened. “But no longer. He tried to take me too. I worked for him for years. I know what he’s capable of, but I can’t watch him swallow up another great mind.”

“Is this some kind of role playing game? Do you get your kicks out of kidnapping people and playing out my husband’s books?”

“Answer me this, Sherlock Holmes, did you choose James Moriarty or did he choose you?” 

“I chose him. We chose each other. That’s what you do when you marry someone, you choose them every time, no matter what.” Sherlock pulled at his restraints. They were very real. 

“Are you certain?”

“Y-”

“Don’t tell me. Tell yourself. Be one hundred percent honest with yourself. Did you  _ choose _ James Moriarty? Or did he choose you and make you another one of his possessions?”

They sat in silence.  _ He gave me his number, but I never called _ . “Jim is the only person who has ever understood me.”

The woman looked crestfallen as she shook her head. “We’ve tried to help you, Sherlock. We sent in people to help you. I’m told you killed one of them yourself.”

“The balding man?” At the woman’s nod, Sherlock shook his head. He yanked against the chains again. “No one else could see him. He wasn’t real.” 

The woman stood and approached the engineer. She cupped his cheek in her hand and looked into his eyes. “You’ll find, Mr. Holmes, that the things that feel the most real are often a mere hallucination and the hallucinations are reality.” She pressed a paper into his hand. “Sometimes you have to choose which world you can live in.” She turned and walked away. “Good luck.” 

The ground shook as Sherlock sat alone in the dark. 

A minute later, Jim and Sebastian were in front of him. Jim held Sherlock’s face in his hands and looked into his eyes. “Sherlock, Sherlock?” Sherlock could hear him repeating his name, but he felt numb. 

Moran helped free Sherlock from the chair and Sherlock pocketed the piece of paper. The pair of them stood on either side of him, guiding him through the tunnels. They passed through so many twists and turns, Sherlock was surprised they were able to find him. He glanced around, but saw no signs of the woman. 

Jim filed a report with the police before they left, but the officers didn’t seem too optimistic about catching the woman. No one had seen Sherlock get taken, no one could find the homeless woman or child. Besides the chair and chains underground, there was no trace of her. Sherlock took comfort in the fact that he couldn’t have chained himself up. She must have been there.

On the train ride back, Sherlock was silent. Moran and Jim argued while the engineer looked out at window at the countryside.  _ "I should have been more vigilant; I should have never suggested fish and chips; I should have known there might be a fanatic who would pull something like this _ ." All the _ should haves _ couldn’t change what had happened. The three of them knew it.

When they finally made it home, Sherlock finally relaxed.

“Is there anything I can get for you, Sherly?” Jim knelt at his knees in their bedroom, chin resting on Sherlock’s clasped hands. 

Sherlock rested his hands on Jim’s shoulders and whispered, “You.” They lay together in bed, wrapped in each other’s embrace. Sherlock buried his face in Jim’s shirt.  _ This _ , he thought,  _ feels real _ .


End file.
